Day after day passed as the Spaniards and their allies, the
Tlascalans,--inveterate enemies of the Aztecs,--slowly moved away from that
blood-stained avenue of death, now little molested by their foes, and
gradually recovering from their fatigue. On the seventh morning they
reached the mountain height which overlooks the plain of Otumba, a point
less than thirty miles from the capital. This plain they were obliged to
traverse on their way to Tlascala, their chosen place of retreat.
As they looked down on the broad level below them they saw with shrinking
hearts why they had not been as yet molested. A mighty host filled the
whole valley from side to side, their arms and standards glistening in the
sun, their numbers so great that the stoutest heart among the Spaniards
viewed them with dismay, and Cortez, daring and hopeful as he was, felt
that his last hour had now surely come.
But this stout leader was not the man to give way to despair. There was
nothing to do but to cut their way through this vast array or perish in
the attempt. To retreat would have been to invite sure destruction.
Fortunately, they had rested for two nights and a day, and men and horses
had regained much of their old strength. Without hesitation, Cortez
prepared for the onset, giving his force as broad a front as possible, and
guarding its flanks with his little body of horse, now twenty in all.
Then, with a few words of encouragement, in which he told them of the
victories they had won, and with orders to his men to thrust, not strike,
with their swords, and to the horsemen on no account to lose their lances,
and to strike at the faces of the foe, he gave the word to advance.
At first the natives recoiled from the stern and fierce onset, rolling
back till they left a wide lane for the passage of their foes. But they
quickly rallied and poured on the little band in their midst, until it
seemed lost in the overwhelming mass. A terrible fray followed, the
Christians, as one writer says, standing "like an islet against which the
breakers, roaring and surging, spend their fury in vain." The struggle was
one of man to man, the Tlascalans and Spaniards alike fighting with
obstinate courage, while the little band of horsemen charged deep into the
enemy's ranks, riding over them and cutting them down with thrust and
blow, their onset giving fresh spirit to the infantry.
But that so small a force could cut their way through that enormous
multitude of armed and valiant enemies seemed impossible. As the minutes
lengthened into hours many of the Tlascalans and some of the Spaniards
were slain, and not a man among them had escaped wounds. Cortez received a
cut on the head, and his horse was hurt so badly that he was forced to
dismount and exchange it for a strong animal from the baggage-train. The
fight went on thus for several hours, the sun growing hotter as it rose in
the sky, and the Christians, weak from their late wounds, gradually losing
strength and spirit. The enemy pressed on in ever fresh numbers, forcing
the horse back on the foot, and throwing the latter into some disorder.
With every minute now the conflict grew more hopeless, and it seemed as if
nothing were left but to sell their lives as dearly as possible.
At this critical juncture a happy chance changed the whole fortune of the
day. Cortez, gazing with eagle eye around the field in search of some
vision of hope, some promise of safety, saw at no great distance in the
midst of the throng a splendidly dressed chief, who was borne in a rich
litter and surrounded by a gayly attired body of young warriors. A
head-dress of beautiful plumes, set in gold and gems, rose above him, and
over this again was a short staff bearing a golden net, the standard of
the Aztecs.
The instant Cortez beheld this person and his emblem his eye lighted with
triumph. He knew him for the commander of the foe, and the golden net as
its rallying standard. Turning to the cavaliers beside him, he pointed
eagerly to the chief, exclaiming, "There is our mark! Follow me!" Then,
shouting his war-cry, he spurred his steed into the thick of the foe.
Sandoval, Alvarado, and others spurred furiously after him, while the
enemy fell back before this sudden and fierce assault.
On swept the cavaliers, rending through the solid ranks, strewing their
path with the dead and dying, bearing down all who opposed them. A few
minutes of this furious onset carried them to the elevated spot on which
were the Aztec chief and his body-guard. Thrusting and cutting with
tiger-like strength and ferocity, Cortez rent a way through the group of
young nobles and struck a furious blow at the Indian commander, piercing
him with his lance and hurling him to the ground. A young cavalier beside
him, Juan de Salamanca, sprang from his horse and despatched the fallen
chief. Then he tore away the banner and handed it to Cortez.
All this was the work almost of a moment. Its effect was remarkable. The
guard, overwhelmed by the sudden onset, fled in a panic, which was quickly
communicated to their comrades. The tidings spread rapidly. The banner of
the chief had disappeared. He had been slain. The blindness of panic
suddenly infected the whole host, which broke and fled in wild terror and
confusion. The Spaniards and Tlascalans were not slow in taking advantage
of this new aspect of affairs. Forgetting their wounds and fatigue, they
dashed in revengeful fury on the flying foe, cutting them down by hundreds
as they fled. Not until they had amply repaid their losses on the bloody
causeway did they return to gather up the booty which strewed the field.
It was great, for, in accordance with Cortez's instructions, they had
struck especially at the chiefs, and many of these were richly ornamented
with gold and jewels.
Thus ended the famous battle of Otumba, the most remarkable victory, in
view of the great disparity of forces, ever won in the New World. Chance
gave the Spaniards victory, but it was a chance made useful only by the
genius of a great commander. The following day the fugitive army reached
the soil of Tlascala and were safe among their friends. History has not a
more heroic story to tell than that of their escape from the Aztec
capital, nor a more striking one than that of their subsequent return and
conquest.