COUNCIL OF WAR--SPANIARDS EVACUATE THE CITY--NOCHE TRISTE, OR “THE
MELANCHOLY NIGHT”--TERRIBLE SLAUGHTER--HALT FOR THE NIGHT--AMOUNT
OF LOSSES
1520
There was no longer any question as to the expediency of evacuating the
capital. The only doubt was as to the time of doing so, and the route.
The Spanish commander called a council of officers to deliberate on
these matters. It was his purpose to retreat on Tlascala, and in that
capital to decide, according to circumstances, on his future operations.
After some discussion, they agreed on the causeway of Tlacopan as the
avenue by which to leave the city. It would, indeed, take them back by a
circuitous route, considerably longer than either of those by which they
had approached the capital. But, for that reason, it would be less
likely to be guarded, as least suspected; and the causeway itself, being
shorter than either of the other entrances, would sooner place the army
in comparative security on the main land.
There was some difference of opinion in respect to the hour of
departure. The daytime, it was argued by some, would be preferable,
since it would enable them to see the nature and extent of their danger
and to provide against it. Darkness would be much more likely to
embarrass their own movements than those of the enemy, who were familiar
with the ground. A thousand impediments would occur in the night, which
might prevent their acting in concert, or obeying, or even ascertaining,
the orders of the commander. But, on the other hand, it was urged that
the night presented many obvious advantages in dealing with a foe who
rarely carried hostilities beyond the day. The late active operations of
the Spaniards had thrown the Mexicans off their guard, and it was
improbable they would anticipate so speedy a departure of their enemies.
With celerity and caution they might succeed, therefore, in making their
escape from the town, possibly over the causeway, before their retreat
should be discovered; and, could they once get beyond that pass of
peril, they felt little apprehension for the rest.
These views were fortified, it is said, by the counsels of a soldier
named Botello, who professed the mysterious science of judicial
astrology. He had gained credit with the army by some predictions which
had been verified by the events; those lucky hits which make chance pass
for calculation with the credulous multitude.[164] This man recommended
to his countrymen by all means to evacuate the place in the night, as
the hour most propitious to them, although he should perish in it. The
event proved the astrologer better acquainted with his own horoscope
than with that of others.[165]
It is possible Botello’s predictions had some weight in determining the
opinion of Cortés. Superstition was the feature of the age, and the
Spanish general, as we have seen, had a full measure of its bigotry.
Seasons of gloom, moreover, dispose the mind to a ready acquiescence in
the marvellous. It is, however, quite as probable that he made use of
the astrologer’s opinion, finding it coincided with his own, to
influence that of his men and inspire them with higher confidence. At
all events, it was decided to abandon the city that very night.
The general’s first care was to provide for the safe transportation of
the treasure. Many of the common soldiers had converted their share of
the prize, as we have seen, into gold chains, collars, or other
ornaments, which they easily carried about their persons. But the royal
fifth, together with that of Cortés himself, and much of the rich booty
of the principal cavaliers, had been converted into bars and wedges of
solid gold, and deposited in one of the strong apartments of the palace.
Cortés delivered the share belonging to the crown to the royal officers,
assigning them one of the strongest horses, and a guard of Castilian
soldiers, to transport it.[166] Still, much of the treasure, belonging
both to the crown and to individuals, was necessarily abandoned, from
the want of adequate means of conveyance. The metal lay scattered in
shining heaps along the floor, exciting the cupidity of the soldiers.
“Take what you will of it,” said Cortés to his men. “Better you should
have it, than these Mexican hounds.[167] But be careful not to overload
yourselves. He travels safest in the dark night who travels lightest.”
His own more wary followers took heed to his counsel, helping themselves
to a few articles of least bulk, though it might be, of greatest
value.[168] But the troops of Narvaez, pining for riches of which they
had heard so much and hitherto seen so little, showed no such
discretion. To them it seemed as if the very mines of Mexico were
turned up before them, and, rushing on the treacherous spoil, they
greedily loaded themselves with as much of it, not merely as they could
accommodate about their persons, but as they could stow away in wallets,
boxes, or any other means of conveyance at their disposal.[169]
Cortés next arranged the order of march. The van, composed of two
hundred Spanish foot, he placed under the command of the valiant Gonzalo
de Sandoval, supported by Diego de Ordaz, Francisco de Lujo, and about
twenty other cavaliers. The rear-guard, constituting the strength of the
infantry, was intrusted to Pedro de Alvarado and Velasquez de Leon. The
general himself took charge of the “battle,” or centre, in which went
the baggage, some of the heavy guns, most of which, however, remained in
the rear, the treasure, and the prisoners. These consisted of a son and
two daughters of Montezuma, Cacama, the deposed lord of Tezcuco, and
several other nobles, whom Cortés retained as important pledges in his
future negotiations with the enemy. The Tlascalans were distributed
pretty equally among the three divisions; and Cortés had under his
immediate command a hundred picked soldiers, his own veterans most
attached to his service, who, with Cristóval de Olid, Francisco de
Morla, Alonso de Avila, and two or three other cavaliers, formed a
select corps, to act wherever occasion might require.
The general had already superintended the construction of a portable
bridge to be laid over the open canals in the causeway. This was given
in charge to an officer named Magarino, with forty soldiers under his
orders, all pledged to defend the passage to the last extremity. The
bridge was to be taken up when the entire army had crossed one of the
breaches, and transported to the next. There were three of these
openings in the causeway, and most fortunate would it have been for the
expedition if the foresight of the commander had provided the same
number of bridges. But the labor would have been great, and time was
short.[170]
At midnight the troops were under arms, in readiness for the march. Mass
was performed by Father Olmedo, who invoked the protection of the
Almighty through the awful perils of the night. The gates were thrown
open, and on the first of July, 1520, the Spaniards for the last time
sallied forth from the walls of the ancient fortress, the scene of so
much suffering and such indomitable courage.[171]
The night was cloudy, and a drizzling rain, which fell without
intermission, added to the obscurity. The great square before the palace
was deserted, as, indeed, it had been since the fall of Montezuma.
Steadily, and as noiselessly as possible, the Spaniards held their way
along the great street of Tlacopan, which so lately had resounded with
the tumult of battle. All was now hushed in silence; and they were only
reminded of the past by the occasional presence of some solitary corpse,
or a dark heap of the slain, which too plainly told where the strife had
been hottest. As they passed along the lanes and alleys which opened
into the great street, or looked down the canals, whose polished surface
gleamed with a sort of ebon lustre through the obscurity of night, they
easily fancied that they discerned the shadowy forms of their foe
lurking in ambush and ready to spring on them. But it was only fancy;
and the city slept undisturbed even by the prolonged echoes of the tramp
of the horses and the hoarse rumbling of the artillery and
baggage-trains. At length, a lighter space beyond the dusky line of
buildings showed the van of the army that it was emerging on the open
causeway. They might well have congratulated themselves on having thus
escaped the dangers of an assault in the city itself, and that a brief
time would place them in comparative safety on the opposite shore. But
the Mexicans were not all asleep.
As the Spaniards drew near the spot where the street opened on the
causeway, and were preparing to lay the portable bridge across the
uncovered breach, which now met their eyes, several Indian sentinels,
who had been stationed at this, as at the other approaches to the city,
took the alarm, and fled, rousing their countrymen by their cries. The
priests, keeping their night-watch on the summit of the _teocallis_,
instantly caught the tidings and sounded their shells, while the huge
drum in the desolate temple of the war-god sent forth those solemn
tones, which, heard only in seasons of calamity, vibrated through every
corner of the capital. The Spaniards saw that no time was to be lost.
The bridge was brought forward and fitted with all possible expedition.
Sandoval was the first to try its strength, and, riding across, was
followed by his little body of chivalry, his infantry, and Tlascalan
allies, who formed the first division of the army. Then came Cortés and
his squadrons, with the baggage, ammunition-wagons, and a part of the
artillery. But before they had time to defile across the narrow passage,
a gathering sound was heard, like that of a mighty forest agitated by
the winds. It grew louder and louder, while on the dark waters of the
lake was heard a plashing noise, as of many oars. Then came a few stones
and arrows striking at random among the hurrying troops. They fell every
moment faster and more furious, till they thickened into a terrible
tempest, while the very heavens were rent with the yells and war-cries
of myriads of combatants, who seemed all at once to be swarming over
land and lake!
The Spaniards pushed steadily on through this arrowy sleet, though the
barbarians, dashing their canoes against the sides of the causeway,
clambered up and broke in upon their ranks. But the Christians, anxious
only to make their escape, declined all combat except for
self-preservation. The cavaliers, spurring forward their steeds, shook
off their assailants and rode over their prostrate bodies, while the men
on foot with their good swords or the butts of their pieces drove them
headlong again down the sides of the dike.
But the advance of several thousand men, marching, probably, on a front
of not more than fifteen or twenty abreast, necessarily required much
time, and the leading files had already reached the second breach in the
causeway before those in the rear had entirely traversed the first.[172]
Here they halted, as they had no means of effecting a passage, smarting
all the while under unintermitting volleys from the enemy, who were
clustered thick on the waters around this second opening. Sorely
distressed, the van-guard sent repeated messages to the rear to demand
the portable bridge. At length the last of the army had crossed, and
Magarino and his sturdy followers endeavored to raise the ponderous
framework. But it stuck fast in the sides of the dike. In vain they
strained every nerve. The weight of so many men and horses, and above
all of the heavy artillery, had wedged the timbers so firmly in the
stones and earth that it was beyond their power to dislodge them. Still
they labored amidst a torrent of missiles, until, many of them slain,
and all wounded, they were obliged to abandon the attempt.
The tidings soon spread from man to man, and no sooner was their
dreadful import comprehended than a cry of despair arose, which for a
moment drowned all the noise of conflict. All means of retreat were cut
off. Scarcely hope was left. The only hope was in such desperate
exertions as each could make for himself. Order and subordination were
at an end. Intense danger produced intense selfishness. Each thought
only of his own life. Pressing forward, he trampled down the weak and
the wounded, heedless whether it were friend or foe. The leading files,
urged on by the rear, were crowded on the brink of the gulf. Sandoval,
Ordaz, and the other cavaliers dashed into the water. Some succeeded in
swimming their horses across. Others failed, and some, who reached the
opposite bank, being overturned in the ascent, rolled headlong with
their steeds into the lake. The infantry followed pellmell, heaped
promiscuously on one another, frequently pierced by the shafts or struck
down by the war-clubs of the Aztecs; while many an unfortunate victim
was dragged half stunned on board their canoes, to be reserved for a
protracted but more dreadful death.[173]
The carnage raged fearfully along the length of the causeway. Its
shadowy bulk presented a mark of sufficient distinctness for the enemy’s
missiles, which often prostrated their own countrymen in the blind fury
of the tempest. Those nearest the dike, running their canoes alongside,
with a force that shattered them to pieces, leaped on the land, and
grappled with the Christians, until both came rolling down the side of
the causeway together. But the Aztec fell among his friends, while his
antagonist was borne away in triumph to the sacrifice. The struggle was
long and deadly. The Mexicans were recognized by their white cotton
tunics, which showed faint through the darkness. Above the combatants
rose a wild and discordant clamor, in which horrid shouts of vengeance
were mingled with groans of agony, with invocations of the saints and
the blessed Virgin, and with the screams of women;[174] for there were
several women, both natives and Spaniards, who had accompanied the
Christian camp. Among these, one named María de Estrada is particularly
noticed for the courage she displayed, battling with broadsword and
target like the stanchest of the warriors.[175]
[Illustration: THE NOCHE TRISTE
_Goupil & Cº., Paris_]
The opening in the causeway, meanwhile, was filled up with the wreck of
matter which had been forced into it, ammunition-wagons, heavy guns,
bales of rich stuffs scattered over the waters, chests of solid ingots,
and bodies of men and horses, till over this dismal ruin a passage was
gradually formed, by which those in the rear were enabled to clamber to
the other side.[176] Cortés, it is said, found a place that was
fordable, where, halting, with the water up to his saddle-girths, he
endeavored to check the confusion, and lead his followers by a safer
path to the opposite bank. But his voice was lost in the wild uproar,
and finally, hurrying on with the tide, he pressed forward with a few
trusty cavaliers, who remained near his person, to the van; but not
before he had seen his favorite page, Juan de Salazar, struck down, a
corpse, by his side. Here he found Sandoval and his companions, halting
before the third and last breach, endeavoring to cheer on their
followers to surmount it. But their resolution faltered. It was wide and
deep; though the passage was not so closely beset by the enemy as the
preceding ones. The cavaliers again set the example by plunging into the
water. Horse and foot followed as they could, some swimming, others with
dying grasp clinging to the manes and tails of the struggling animals.
Those fared best, as the general had predicted, who travelled lightest;
and many were the unfortunate wretches who, weighed down by the fatal
gold which they loved so well, were buried with it in the salt floods of
the lake.[177] Cortes, with his gallant comrades, Olid, Morla, Sandoval,
and some few others, still kept in the advance, leading his broken
remnant off the fatal causeway. The din of battle lessened in the
distance; when the rumor reached them that the rear-guard would be
wholly overwhelmed without speedy relief. It seemed almost an act of
desperation; but the generous hearts of the Spanish cavaliers did not
stop to calculate danger when the cry for succor reached them. Turning
their horses’ bridles, they galloped back to the theatre of action,
worked their way through the press, swam the canal, and placed
themselves in the thick of the _mêlée_ on the opposite bank.[178]
The first gray of the morning was now coming over the waters. It showed
the hideous confusion of the scene which had been shrouded in the
obscurity of night. The dark masses of combatants, stretching along the
dike, were seen struggling for mastery, until the very causeway on which
they stood appeared to tremble, and reel to and fro, as if shaken by an
earthquake; while the bosom of the lake, as far as the eye could reach,
was darkened by canoes crowded with warriors, whose spears and
bludgeons, armed with blades of “volcanic glass,” gleamed in the morning
light.
The cavaliers found Alvarado unhorsed, and defending himself with a poor
handful of followers against an overwhelming tide of the enemy. His good
steed, which had borne him through many a hard fight, had fallen under
him.[179] He was himself wounded in several places, and was striving in
vain to rally his scattered column, which was driven to the verge of the
canal by the fury of the enemy, then in possession of the whole rear of
the causeway, where they were reinforced every hour by fresh combatants
from the city. The artillery in the earlier part of the engagement had
not been idle, and its iron shower, sweeping along the dike, had mowed
down the assailants by hundreds. But nothing could resist their
impetuosity. The front ranks, pushed on by those behind, were at length
forced up to the pieces, and, pouring over them like a torrent,
overthrew men and guns in one general ruin. The resolute charge of the
Spanish cavaliers, who had now arrived, created a temporary check, and
gave time for their countrymen to make a feeble rally. But they were
speedily borne down by the returning flood. Cortés and his companions
were compelled to plunge again into the lake,--though all did not
escape. Alvarado stood on the brink for a moment, hesitating what to
do. Unhorsed as he was, to throw himself into the water, in the face of
the hostile canoes that now swarmed around the opening, afforded but a
desperate chance of safety. He had but a second for thought. He was a
man of powerful frame, and despair gave him unnatural energy. Setting
his long lance firmly on the wreck which strewed the bottom of the lake,
he sprung forward with all his might, and cleared the wide gap at a
leap! Aztecs and Tlascalans gazed in stupid amazement, exclaiming, as
they beheld the incredible feat, “This is truly the _Tonatiuh_,--the
child of the Sun!”[180] The breadth of the opening is not given. But it
was so great that the valorous captain Diaz, who well remembered the
place, says the leap was impossible to any man.[181] Other
contemporaries, however, do not discredit the story.[182] It was,
beyond doubt, matter of popular belief at the time; it is to this day
familiarly known to every inhabitant of the capital; and the name of the
_Salto de Alvarado_, “Alvarado’s Leap,” given to the spot, still
commemorates an exploit which rivalled those of the demi-gods of Grecian
fable.[183]
Cortés and his companions now rode forward to the front, where the
troops, in a loose, disorderly manner, were marching off the fatal
causeway. A few only of the enemy hung on their rear, or annoyed them by
occasional flights of arrows from the lake. The attention of the Aztecs
was diverted by the rich spoil that strewed the battle-ground;
fortunately for the Spaniards, who, had their enemy pursued with the
same ferocity with which he had fought, would, in their crippled
condition, have been cut off, probably, to a man. But little molested,
therefore, they were allowed to defile through the adjacent village, or
suburbs, it might be called, of Popotla.[184]
The Spanish commander there dismounted from his jaded steed, and,
sitting down on the steps of an Indian temple, gazed mournfully on the
broken files as they passed before him. What a spectacle did they
present! The cavalry, most of them dismounted, were mingled with the
infantry, who dragged their feeble limbs along with difficulty; their
shattered mail and tattered garments dripping with the salt ooze,
showing through their rents many a bruise and ghastly wound; their
bright arms soiled, their proud crests and banners gone, the baggage,
artillery, all, in short, that constitutes the pride and panoply of
glorious war, forever lost. Cortés, as he looked wistfully on their
thin and disordered ranks, sought in vain for many a familiar face, and
missed more than one dear companion who had stood side by side with him
through all the perils of the Conquest. Though accustomed to control his
emotions, or, at least, to conceal them, the sight was too much for him.
He covered his face with his hands, and the tears, which trickled down,
revealed too plainly the anguish of his soul.[185]
He found some consolation, however, in the sight of several of the
cavaliers on whom he most relied. Alvarado, Sandoval, Olid, Ordaz,
Avila, were yet safe. He had the inexpressible satisfaction, also, of
learning the safety of the Indian interpreter, Marina, so dear to him,
and so important to the army. She had been committed, with a daughter of
a Tlascalan chief, to several of that nation. She was fortunately placed
in the van, and the faithful escort had carried her securely through all
the dangers of the night. Aguilar, the other interpreter, had also
escaped. And it was with no less satisfaction that Cortés learned the
safety of the ship-builder, Martin Lopez.[186] The general’s solicitude
for the fate of this man, so indispensable, as he proved, to the success
of his subsequent operations, showed that, amidst all his affliction,
his indomitable spirit was looking forward to the hour of vengeance.
Meanwhile, the advancing column had reached the neighboring city of
Tlacopan (Tacuba), once the capital of an independent principality.
There it halted in the great street, as if bewildered and altogether
uncertain what course to take; like a herd of panic-struck deer, who,
flying from the hunters, with the cry of hound and horn still ringing in
their ears, look wildly around for some glen or copse in which to plunge
for concealment. Cortés, who had hastily mounted and rode on to the
front again, saw the danger of remaining in a populous place, where the
inhabitants might sorely annoy the troops from the _azoteas_, with
little risk to themselves. Pushing forward, therefore, he soon led them
into the country. There he endeavored to reform his disorganized
battalions and bring them to something like order.[187]
Hard by, at no great distance on the left, rose an eminence, looking
towards a chain of mountains which fences in the Valley on the west. It
was called the Hill of Otoncalpolco, and sometimes the Hill of
Montezuma.[188] It was crowned with an Indian _teocalli_, with its large
outworks of stone covering an ample space, and by its strong position,
which commanded the neighboring plain, promised a good place of refuge
for the exhausted troops. But the men, disheartened and stupefied by
their late reverses, seemed for the moment incapable of further
exertion; and the place was held by a body of armed Indians. Cortés saw
the necessity of dislodging them if he would save the remains of his
army from entire destruction. The event showed he still held a control
over their wills stronger than circumstances themselves. Cheering them
on, and supported by his gallant cavaliers, he succeeded in infusing
into the most sluggish something of his own intrepid temper, and led
them up the ascent in face of the enemy. But the latter made slight
resistance, and, after a few feeble volleys of missiles which did little
injury, left the ground to the assailants.
It was covered by a building of considerable size, and furnished ample
accommodations for the diminished numbers of the Spaniards. They found
there some provisions; and more, it is said, were brought to them, in
the course of the day, from some friendly Otomi villages in the
neighborhood. There was, also, a quantity of fuel in the courts,
destined to the uses of the temple. With this they made fires to dry
their drenched garments, and busily employed themselves in dressing one
another’s wounds, stiff and extremely painful from exposure and long
exertion. Thus refreshed, the weary soldiers threw themselves down on
the floor and courts of the temple, and soon found the temporary
oblivion which Nature seldom denies even in the greatest extremity of
suffering.[189]
There was one eye in that assembly, however, which we may well believe
did not so speedily close. For what agitating thoughts must have crowded
on the mind of their commander, as he beheld his poor remnant of
followers thus huddled together in this miserable bivouac! And this was
all that survived of the brilliant array with which but a few weeks
since he had entered the capital of Mexico! Where now were his dreams of
conquest and empire? And what was he but a luckless adventurer, at whom
the finger of scorn would be uplifted as a madman? Whichever way he
turned, the horizon was almost equally gloomy, with scarcely one light
spot to cheer him. He had still a weary journey before him, through
perilous and unknown paths, with guides of whose fidelity he could not
be assured. And how could he rely on his reception at Tlascala, the
place of his destination,--the land of his ancient enemies, where,
formerly as a foe, and now as a friend, he had brought desolation to
every family within its borders?
Yet these agitating and gloomy reflections, which might have crushed a
common mind, had no power over that of Cortés; or, rather, they only
served to renew his energies and quicken his perceptions, as the war of
the elements purifies and gives elasticity to the atmosphere. He looked
with an unblenching eye on his past reverses; but, confident in his own
resources, he saw a light through the gloom which others could not. Even
in the shattered relics which lay around him, resembling in their
haggard aspect and wild attire a horde of famished outlaws, he discerned
the materials out of which to reconstruct his ruined fortunes. In the
very hour of discomfiture and general despondency, there is no doubt
that his heroic spirit was meditating the plan of operations which he
afterwards pursued with such dauntless constancy.
The loss sustained by the Spaniards on this fatal night, like every
other event in the history of the Conquest, is reported with the
greatest discrepancy. If we believe Cortés’ own letter, it did not
exceed one hundred and fifty Spaniards and two thousand Indians. But the
general’s bulletins, while they do full justice to the difficulties to
be overcome and the importance of the results, are less scrupulous in
stating the extent either of his means or of his losses. Thoan Cano, one
of the cavaliers present, estimates the slain at eleven hundred and
seventy Spaniards and eight thousand allies. But this is a greater
number than we have allowed for the whole army. Perhaps we may come
nearest the truth by taking the computation of Gomara, who was the
chaplain of Cortés, and who had free access, doubtless, not only to the
general’s papers, but to other authentic sources of information.
According to him, the number of Christians killed and missing was four
hundred and fifty, and that of natives four thousand. This, with the
loss sustained in the conflicts of the previous week, may have reduced
the former to something more than a third, and the latter to a fourth,
or perhaps fifth, of the original force with which they entered the
capital.[190] The brunt of the action fell on the rear-guard, few of
whom escaped. It was formed chiefly of the soldiers of Narvaez, who fell
the victims, in some measure, of their cupidity.[191] Forty-six of the
cavalry were cut off, which with previous losses reduced the number in
this branch of the service to twenty-three, and some of these in very
poor condition. The greater part of the treasure, the baggage, the
general’s papers, including his accounts, and a minute diary of
transactions since leaving Cuba,--which, to posterity at least, would
have been of more worth than the gold,--had been swallowed up by the
waters.[192] The ammunition, the beautiful little train of artillery
with which Cortés had entered the city, were all gone. Not a musket even
remained, the men having thrown them away, eager to disencumber
themselves of all that might retard their escape on that disastrous
night. Nothing, in short, of their military apparatus was left, but
their swords, their crippled cavalry, and a few damaged cross-bows, to
assert the superiority of the European over the barbarian.
The prisoners, including, as already noticed, the children of Montezuma
and the cacique of Tezcuco, all perished by the hands of their ignorant
countrymen, it is said, in the indiscriminate fury of the assault. There
were, also, some persons of consideration among the Spaniards whose
names were inscribed on the same bloody roll of slaughter. Such was
Francisco de Morla, who fell by the side of Cortés on returning with him
to the rescue. But the greatest loss was that of Juan Velasquez de Leon,
who, with Alvarado, had command of the rear. It was the post of danger
on that night, and he fell, bravely defending it, at an early part of
the retreat. He was an excellent officer, possessed of many knightly
qualities, though somewhat haughty in his bearing, being one of the
best-connected cavaliers in the army. The near relation of the governor
of Cuba, he looked coldly, at first, on the pretensions of Cortés; but,
whether from a conviction that the latter had been wronged, or from
personal preference, he afterwards attached himself zealously to his
leader’s interests. The general requited this with a generous
confidence, assigning him, as we have seen, a separate and independent
command, where misconduct, or even a mistake, would have been fatal to
the expedition. Velasquez proved himself worthy of the trust; and there
was no cavalier in the army, with the exception, perhaps, of Sandoval
and Alvarado, whose loss would have been so deeply deplored by the
commander. Such were the disastrous results of this terrible passage of
the causeway; more disastrous than those occasioned by any other reverse
which has stained the Spanish arms in the New World; and which have
branded the night on which it happened, in the national annals, with the
name of the _noche triste_, “the sad or melancholy night.”[193]