workmen to the coast to assist the Spaniards in building ships. In the
interim he assured the populace that the white men would leave in a
very few weeks. Cortés, meanwhile, sent word to delay the construction
of ships as long as possible, for he hoped, in the meantime, to receive
reënforcements from Spain, so that he could hold his ground. The
Spaniards were now thoroughly frightened, for they were surrounded by
hundreds of thousands of the enemy, and, should these break loose upon
them, they knew that they should have to fight for their lives.
This was the state of affairs, in May, 1520, after the Spaniards had
been six months in the country of Mexico. Then came an unexpected
thunderclap, for Cortés received word from the coast that the jealous
Governor of Cuba, hearing of his great success, was forwarding an
expedition to attack him. Think of it! To attack the one who had
accomplished that which he had been sent to accomplish!
The commander of this second expedition, Narváez, sent several of his
most trusted adherents to Villa Rica, where Cortés had left a body
of men under one Sandoval, to demand his capitulation. But, Sandoval
would hear nothing of this, and, binding the emissaries to the backs
of several sturdy porters, like bales of cotton, he sent them, under
guard, to Mexico City, where Cortés received them courteously. He
learned that the principal object of Narváez was the finding of gold,
and that the soldiers of this interloper had no particular regard for
their leader, as he was arrogant and by no means liberal.
The General decided that the only thing to do was to march against this
man, to defeat him, and to unite the new forces with his own. This he
did. The newcomer was captured, his troops willingly joined with the
followers of Cortés, and the bold Spaniard returned to Mexico City,
where he had left his Lieutenant Alvarado in command. But he found that
matters had gone very ill since his departure, and that insurrection
and bloodshed were rampant in the once quiet capital.
The General eagerly inquired what had transpired during his absence,
and found that Alvarado had acted in a manner that was not only
undiplomatic but also bloodthirsty. A few days after Cortés had
marched towards the coast, the Aztec festival of “The Incensing of
Huitzilopochtli” was celebrated, and, having asked permission to use
the _teocalli_, the Aztecs assembled to the number of at least six
hundred. The natives wore their magnificent gala attire, with mantles
of feather-work sprinkled with precious stones, and collars, bracelets,
and ornaments of gold. Alvarado and his men, fully armed, attended as
spectators, and, as the natives were engaged in one of their ceremonial
dances, fell upon them suddenly,—sword in hand. A great and dreadful
slaughter now followed, the Aztecs being hewn down without resistance.
Those who attempted to escape by climbing the wall of serpents, were
cut down to a man, until not a single one remained alive. The tidings
of this awful massacre flew instantly through the capital, and the
city rose in arms against these terrible invaders, who would do such a
dastardly deed.
The Spaniards made themselves secure in their citadel, but they were
attacked with the greatest fury. The works were undermined, and some
of the more courageous assailants set fire to the walls. Montezuma was
entreated to interfere, and, mounting the battlement, requested the
howling mob of Aztecs to desist from storming the fortress, out of
regard for his own safety. This they did, although a regular blockade
was begun, and high walls were thrown up around the citadel in order
to prevent the egress of the Spaniards. The Aztec warriors chanted
defiance at Alvarado and his men, while sullenly awaiting the time when
the Spaniards would be starved into submission.
Cortés was angered and ashamed at the action which his Lieutenant had
taken, and, calling him to him, roundly upbraided him for attacking the
natives in this brutal fashion. As an explanation for his atrocious
act, Alvarado declared that he had struck this blow in order to
intimidate the natives and crush an uprising which he had learned was
about to occur.
“You have done badly!” cried Cortés. “You have been false to your trust
and your conduct has been that of a madman!”
The Spanish commander lost his self-control for the first time, and
allowed his disgust and irritation to be plainly seen. He bitterly
regretted that he had entrusted so important a command to one who had
such a rash and cruel nature. But the deed was done. The Aztecs were
now in open revolt, and the Spaniards had to battle for their very
lives. The whole city was in arms, the drawbridges were raised, and the
enemy was collecting from every quarter.
As Cortés directed the troops within the citadel, to which he had had
to fight his way after the destruction of Narváez, he heard a long,
hoarse, sullen roar from the streets of the city. It became louder
and louder, until, as he stood upon the parapet and looked into the
distance, he could see dark masses of warriors rolling towards the
citadel in a confused tide, while the flat roofs of the houses nearby
were covered with swarms of menacing figures, who brandished their
weapons, and cried out with shrill voices: “Death to the invaders!
Death to the enemies of our gods! Death to the dogs from Spain!” The
great war drum upon the _teocalli_ rolled out a mournful and doleful
sound of battle, while gay banners fluttered from the serried ranks of
the approaching army.
On, on, came the wild Aztecs, their shrill yells sounding high above
the rolling of their rude drums, and, as they came within sight of the
Spanish quarters, they let loose a perfect tempest of stones, darts,
and arrows. At the same time those upon the roofs let drive a blinding
volley. The men under Cortés waited until the enemy were within a
hundred yards of the ancient palace, in which they had barricaded
themselves, and then thundered a return volley from their cannon and
guns. The first few ranks of the Aztec warriors were swept to the
ground, but, leaping over the prostrate bodies of the slain, the
great horde of fighting men came on. Soon some of the bolder warriors
succeeded in getting close enough to the wall to be sheltered by it
from the fire of the Spaniards, so they made a gallant yet futile
effort to scale the parapet. As soon as their heads appeared above
the ramparts, they were shot down, one after another, and fell to the
street below. Great piles of the slain lay heaped before the ancient
palace of the Montezumas.
Burning arrows were now shot upon the buildings in the courtyard, and
several of them took fire. So severe was the conflagration that a
part of the wall had to be thrown down, thus laying open a formidable
breach, which the Aztecs endeavored to storm. But cannon were
pointed at the spot, and a file of arquebusiers kept up an incessant
volley-fire through the opening, so that those who attempted to get
through were killed as fast as they reached the portal. All day long
the fight raged with fury, and, when night came, the Spaniards could
get no sleep, for they were in hourly expectation of a new attack.
Next morning the mournful war-drum again groaned out its call to the
battle, and again the serried ranks of the enfuriated Aztec warriors
came on to the attack. Showers of burning arrows, darts, and heavy
stones fell against the Spanish battlement, and the mass of warriors
struggled with renewed fury to gain possession of the breach. Cortés
ordered a sortie, hoping to drive this body of invaders away, but, when
the gates were thrown open and he dashed forward with the cavalry,
assisted by a large force of Tlascalans, the natives retreated behind
a barricade. Heavy guns were ordered up, and the barriers were
demolished; but, as he pressed the Aztecs backwards, so many came
in upon the flanks that he was forced to retreat. As the Spaniards
reëntered their fortress, pursued by a shower of darts and arrows, the
Indians once more closed around it, with menacing cries and insults.
“The gods have delivered you into our hands at last!” they called.
“Huitzilopochtli has long been crying for his victims, and the stone of
sacrifice is ever ready. Our knives are sharpened. The wild beasts in
the palace are roaring for their feast.”
Yet they cried piteously for Montezuma and entreated the Spaniards to
deliver him up to them.
“Oh, give us back our Emperor!” said they. “You have willfully and
falsely detained and imprisoned him!”
At this, Cortés determined to induce Montezuma to exert his authority,
in order to allay the tumult. So he requested the captive Emperor to
speak to the howling mob. Montezuma had soon arrayed himself in his
finest robes, and with a guard of Spaniards around him, and preceded by
an Aztec carrying a golden wand (the symbol of sovereignty) the Indian
monarch ascended the central turret of the palace.
A marvelous and magical change now came over the scene. The fierce
and vindictive war cries of the Aztec warriors ceased. Great rows of
Indians prostrated themselves on the ground, while all eyes were turned
upon the monarch whom they had been taught to venerate with slavish
awe. The Spaniards were startled at the homage which was given to the
cowardly Emperor, and Montezuma, himself, saw his advantage. He felt
himself once again a king, and addressed the multitude with all of his
former authority and confidence.
“Why do I see my people here in arms against the palace of my father?”
said he. “Is it that you think your sovereign a prisoner and wish to
release him? If so, you have done well; but you are mistaken. I am no
prisoner. These strangers are my guests. I remain with them only by
choice and I can leave them when I will. Have you come to drive them
from the city? That is unnecessary; they will depart of their own
accord, if you will open a way for them. Return to your homes! Lay down
your arms! Show your obedience to me, whose right it is. The white men
shall go back to their land, and all shall be well again within the
walls of Mexico.”
A murmur of contempt ran through the multitude. Rage and desire for
revenge made the Aztec warriors forget their reverence for their former
beloved Emperor, and they now turned against the very man whose word
had once been their law.
“Base Aztec!” they cried out in loud tones. “You are a woman and a
coward! The white men have made you a female, fit only to weave and to
spin! Begone! Back to your needlework and to your Spanish brothers!”
Immediately the Emperor was assailed by a cloud of rocks and arrows.
A stone struck the miserable man in the head, with a sickening thud,
and knocked him to the ground. A chief of high rank hurled his javelin
at him, but it just missed him as he fell. The Mexicans were shocked
at their own act of sacrilege and set up a dismal cry. They dispersed,
panic-stricken, and not one remained in the great square before the
palace.
With care and gentleness the Spaniards carried the body of Montezuma
to his own apartments. As soon as he recovered from his insensibility,
the full misery of his situation broke upon him. He, the once great and
powerful Montezuma, had been reviled and rejected by his own people.
Utterly crushed in spirit, he refused all food or assistance, even
tearing off the bandages which the Spaniards applied to his wounds. He
sat motionless, with eyes cast upon the ground, perpetually brooding
over his humiliation, and gradually grew so weak that he could scarcely
sit upright.
A body of Mexicans now took possession of the famous temple to the
war god, Huitzilopochtli, which was opposite the Spanish palace, and
rose to a height of nearly a hundred and fifty feet. From this vantage
point the Aztecs discharged such a volley of arrows upon the garrison,
that it was impossible for any soldier to show himself for an instant
outside the wall of the palace, without being immediately struck. The
Mexicans, meanwhile, were completely sheltered. As it was absolutely
necessary that they be driven from this point of vantage, Cortés
intrusted the task to his chamberlain, Escobar, giving him a hundred
men for the purpose. Three desperate attempts were made, but being
repulsed with considerable loss, this officer returned, and Cortés
determined to lead the storming party himself. A wound in his left
hand had almost disabled it, but he strapped his shield to the injured
member and thus sallied forth.
Several thousand of the Tlascalan allies were with him, and, at
the head of three hundred chosen cavaliers, he now dashed from the
palace. In the courtyard of the temple, a body of Mexicans was drawn
up to dispute his passage, but he charged them briskly, and, although
the horses could not stand up and had to be returned to the Spanish
quarters, the Aztecs were dispersed. The cavaliers and their Indian
allies now pressed up to the flight of stone steps which led into the
_teocalli_. The warriors were drawn up on every terrace, as well as
on the topmost platform, and showered down heavy stones, beams, and
burning rafters. The Spaniards kept on, in spite of the fact that many
of them were badly wounded by the falling beams and arrows, and, aided
by a brisk fire from the muskateers below, soon drove the Aztecs to the
broad summit of the _teocalli_. Here a desperate hand-to-hand fight
took place.
As the edge of the platform was unprotected by either battlement or
parapet, many of the combatants, as they struggled together, rolled
off, locked in a deadly deathgrip. Two powerful Aztecs seized upon
Cortés, at one stage of the battle, and were dragging him violently
toward the side of the pyramid, when, by sheer strength, he tore
himself from their grasp and hurled one of them over the edge.
At the beginning of the fight for the possession of this temple, the
priests ran to and fro among the contestants, with their long hair
streaming out behind them. With wild gestures they encouraged and urged
on the Indians, until they were all either killed or captured by the
onrushing Spanish cavaliers.
One by one the Indian warriors fell dead upon the blood-drenched
pavement, or were hurled from the dizzy height to the pavement below,
until, at last, none were left to oppose the white men. The Spaniards,
with yells of victory, now rushed into the sanctuaries. In one was
the hideous image of Huitzilopochtli with an offering of human hearts
before him. Possibly these were those of their own countrymen! With
loud shouts of triumph the Spaniards tore the hideous idol from its
niche, and, as the Aztecs watched, hurled it down the long steps of
the _teocalli_. Then the sanctuaries were set on fire, and, descending
joyfully to the courtyard, the soldiers set up a great song of
thanksgiving for their victory.
Cortés now hoped that the natives were sufficiently subdued to be
willing to come to terms with him, so he invited them to a parley,
and addressed the principal chiefs. He talked to them from the turret
previously occupied by Montezuma, and, as usual, had Marina to
interpret for him.
“You have brought all this slaughter upon yourselves by your
rebellion,” he said. “Yet, for the sake of the affection felt for you
by the sovereign whom you have treated so unworthily, I would willingly
stay my hand if you will lay down your arms and return once more to
obedience to me. If you do not do this, I will make your city a heap of
ruins, and will leave not a single soul alive to mourn over it.”
The Aztecs replied in a manner which was quite unexpected.
“It is quite true that you have destroyed our gods, massacred our
countrymen, and broken our temple to pieces. But look out upon our
streets and terraces. You see them thronged with warriors as far as
your eyes can reach,” said the Indian who had been chosen spokesman.
“Our numbers are scarcely diminished by our losses. Yours, on the
contrary, are lessened every hour. Your provisions and your water are
failing; you are perishing from hunger and from sickness; you must
soon fall into our hands. The bridges are broken down and you cannot
escape! There will be few of you left to glut the vengeance of our
gods.”
With this tart reply, they discharged a volley of arrows, which
compelled the Spaniards to beat a speedy retreat.
To retreat was hazardous, indeed, and it was mortifying to abandon the
city; but, with his men daily diminishing in strength and in numbers,
and with his stock of provisions so nearly exhausted that one small
daily ration of bread was all that the soldiers had, there was nothing
else for Cortés to do. Montezuma had lingered feebly along, after the
day in which he had been struck by a stone, and now passed to another
world. “The tidings of this,” says an old historian, “were received
with real grief by every cavalier and soldier in the army who had
access to his person, for we all loved him as a father.” The Emperor’s
death was a misfortune for the Spaniards, because, while he lived,
there was a slight possibility of using his influence with the natives.
Now that hope had disappeared.
A council was called to decide as speedily as possible the
all-important question of the retreat. It was agreed that they should
leave at once, and at night, so that darkness would cloak their
movements. The safe conveyance of the treasure was quite a problem, but
the soldiers had converted their share into gold chains, or collars,
which could be easily carried about their persons. The royal fifth,
however, was in bars and wedges of solid gold. It could be carried
only by horse, and a special guard had to be provided for it. But much
treasure had to be abandoned, and it lay in shining heaps upon the
floor of the palace.
The soldiers who had come with Cortés, being old campaigners, did
not load themselves down with more than they could safely transport.
The soldiers of Narváez, however, being keen for the accumulation of
treasure, loaded themselves down with all that they could possibly
carry off with them.
As the retreat was to be over the causeway and dykes, a portable
bridge was constructed which could be laid across the open canals.
This was entrusted to the care of an officer named Magarino and forty
men. Cortés arranged the order of march. First was to go two hundred
Spanish foot soldiers, commanded by a Captain Sandoval, with twenty
other cavaliers. The rear guard was formed of infantry under Alvarado
and De Leon, while the center was in charge of Cortés, himself, with
some heavy guns, the baggage and the treasure. There were also the
prisoners, among whom were a son and two daughters of Montezuma,
Cacama, and several nobles. The Indian allies, the Tlascalans, were
divided up among the three divisions. There were several thousand of
these.
Midnight came and all was ready for the journey. A solemn mass was
celebrated by Father Almedo, and, keeping as quiet as they possibly
could, the Spaniards sallied forth from the ancient palace of the
Aztecs, which had been the scene of so much suffering and fighting. The
night was a dark one, and a fine, misty rain fell steadily upon the
serried columns of Spanish cavaliers and brown-skinned natives.
The vast square before the palace was deserted. Through some
superstitious dread, the natives had not frequented the plaza since
the death of their Emperor, Montezuma, and the Spaniards crossed it as
noiselessly as possible, entering the great street of Tlacopan. They
peered anxiously into the gloom, expecting to be attacked at any moment
by a swarm of Aztecs, but all went well with them until the first
files of soldiers drew near the spot where the street opened upon the
causeway, which led by the side of the lake. Here there were Mexican
sentinels at their posts, and, as the bridge was being adjusted across
the uncovered breach, the Aztecs fled, crying out in loud tones that
the hated white men were leaving the city.
Immediately there was a commotion. The priests heard the shouting from
the summits of their _teocalli_ and beat upon the peculiar shells
which were used for rousing the people. The huge drum upon the temple
of the god of war was struck and gave forth a hollow, moaning roar
which vibrated through every corner of the capital. The Spaniards were
alarmed and worked with desperate fury to place their bridge across the
causeway so that the army could escape. But, as the soldiers labored
valorously, a sound was heard like a stormy wind as it rises in a
forest. Nearer and nearer it came, and, from the dark waters of the
lake came the splashing of many paddles. A few stones and arrows fell
among the hurrying troops. More and more followed in rapid succession
until they became a veritable blinding storm. Yells and shrill
war-cries rent the air, and, before the Spaniards well realized their
position, they found themselves surrounded by myriads of the enemy, who
were swarming over land and lake.
The Aztecs ran their canoes along the sides of the causeway, climbed
up, and charged the ranks of the Spaniards, with their Tlascalan
allies. The soldiers shook them off as best they could, rode over them
with their horses, and, with their pikes and their swords, drove them
headlong down the sides of the dike. They halted and waited for the
bridge to be brought up; but a terrible calamity had occurred, for the
bridge had been so borne down by the weight of the artillery passing
over it, that it had jammed firmly into the sides of the dike and was
immovable.
The tidings spread rapidly from man to man and a cry of despair arose,
for all means of advance were cut off, and the Spaniards were caught
in a trap. Those behind pressed forward, trampling the weak and the
wounded under foot, and forcing those in front over the gulf. Some
of the cavaliers succeeded in swimming their horses across, but many
rolled back into the lake when attempting to ascend the opposite bank.
The infantry followed in a panic, and many of the men were pierced
by the Aztec arrows, or struck down by war clubs. Some were dragged
into the canoes to be later sacrificed to the great and awful stone
god. Fierce battle cries rose above the tumult of war, and these were
mingled with the cries of despair of the drowning Spaniards.
By degrees the opening in the causeway was filled up by the wreck of
the wagons, guns, rich bales of stuffs, chests of solid ingots, and
bodies of men and horses. Walking on top of this dismal ruin, those in
the rear were able to reach the other side.
As the attention of the Aztec warriors now fell upon the rich spoil
that strewed the ground, the pursuit of the Spaniards ceased. The
troops pressed forward through the village of Popotla, where Cortés
dismounted from his weary war-horse, and, sitting down upon the steps
of an Indian temple, looked mournfully at his broken army, as the thin
and disordered ranks filed past. It was a heartrending spectacle. He
knew, however, that this was no time to give away to vain regrets, so
he speedily mounted, and led his men through Tlacopan.
The broken army, disorganized and half starved, moved slowly toward
the sea coast. On the seventh day it reached the mountain range which
overlooks the plains of Otumba, and the scouts, climbing the steep
hillside, reported that a mighty host of warriors was in the valley,
ready to dispute their passage. Every chief of importance had taken the
field, and, as far as the eye could reach, extended a moving mass of
glittering shields and spears, mingled with the banners and the bright
feather-mail of the caciques.
Cortés disposed his army to the best advantage, and prepared to cut
his way through the enemy. He gave his force as broad a front as
possible, protecting it on either flank by his cavalry, now reduced
to but twenty horsemen. His directions to his infantrymen was that
they were to thrust, not strike, with their swords, and were to make
for the leaders of the enemy, whom they were to dispatch as soon as
met with. After a few brave words of encouragement, the little band
began to descend the hill. The enemy set up fierce war cries, as they
approached, and met the Spaniards with a storm of stones and arrows.