The Famous Retreat Of Cortez And The Spaniards

There is no chapter in all history more crowded with interesting and

romantic events than the story of the conquest of Mexico by the Spaniards

under Cortez. And of all these records of desperate daring and wonderful

success, the most extraordinary is the tale of the Noche Triste, the

terrible night-retreat of the Spaniards from the Aztec capital. No one can

read this story, and that of the remarkable victory of Otumba which
< r /> followed it, without feeling that Cortez and his men were warriors worthy

of the most warlike age. This oft-told story we shall here again relate.



In a preceding tale we described how Cortez set out from Cuba on his great

expedition, with a few hundred soldiers and a small number of cannon,

muskets, and horses. It may briefly be stated here that he sought to

conquer a warlike and powerful nation with this insignificant force, less

than a modern regiment. We might relate how he landed in Mexico; won, with

the terror of his horses and guns and the valor of his men, victory in

every battle; gained allies among the foes of the Aztecs; made his way

into their capital; seized and held prisoner their emperor, Montezuma, and

for a time seemed to be full master of the land. We might go on to tell

how at length the Mexicans rose in fury, attacked the Spaniards with the

courage of desperation, mortally wounded their own emperor, and at length

brought the invaders into such terrible straits that they were forced to

fight their way out of the city as their last hope of life.



To understand what followed, it must be stated that the city of Mexico

lay, not in the open country, but on an island in the centre of a large

lake, and that all the roads leading to it passed over narrow causeways of

earth across this lake. Each of these causeways was broken at intervals by

wide ditches, with bridges crossing them. But the Aztecs had removed these

bridges, and thus added immensely to the difficulty of the night-march

which the desperate Spaniards were obliged to make.



It was at midnight on the 1st of July, 1520, that Cortez and his men threw

open the gates of the palace fortress in which they had long defended

themselves against the furious assaults of thousands of daring foes. The

night was dark and cloudy, and a drizzling rain was falling. Not an enemy

was to be seen, and as they made their way with as little noise as

possible along the great street of Tlacopan, all was hushed in silence,

Hope rose in their hearts. The tramp of the horses and the rumble of the

guns and baggage-wagons passed unheard, and they reached the head of the

causeway without waking a sleeping Aztec warrior.



Here was the first break in the causeway, and they had brought with them a

bridge to lay across it. But here also were some Indian sentinels, who

fled in haste on seeing them, rousing the sleeping city with their cries.

The priests on the summit of the great temple pyramid were also on the

watch, and when the shouts of alarm reached their ears from below, they

sounded their shells and beat their huge drum, which was only heard in

times of peril or calamity. Instantly the city broke from its slumber, and

as the leading Spaniards crossed the bridge a distant sound was heard,

which rapidly approached. Soon from every street and lane poured enemies,

flinging stones and arrows into the crowded ranks of the Spaniards as they

came. On the lake was heard a splashing sound, as of many oars, and the

war-cry of a host of combatants broke on the air. A brief interval had

sufficed to change the silence into a frightful uproar of sound and the

restful peace into the fast growing tumult of furious battle.



The Spaniards pushed steadily along the causeway, fighting only to drive

back the assailants who landed from their canoes and rushed in fury upon

the marching ranks. The horsemen spurred over them, riding them down; the

men on foot cut them down with their swords, or hurled them backward with

the butts of their guns; the Indian allies of the Spaniards attacked them

fiercely, and the roar of war spread far through the gloom of the night.



Onward marched the Spaniards, horse and foot; onward creaked and rumbled

the artillery and the wagons; and the second canal in the causeway was

reached while the rear files were not yet across the first. The Spaniards

had made a fatal mistake in bringing with them only one bridge. When the

last of the retreating force was across this, a vigorous effort was made

to raise it and carry it to the canal in front, but in vain. The weight of

men, horses, and cannon had wedged it so firmly in the earth and stones

that it could not be moved. Every nerve was strained to lift the heavy

mass, until, many of the workmen being killed and all wounded by the

torrent of Aztec missiles, they were forced to abandon it.



When the dread tidings that the bridge could not be raised spread through

the crowded host, a cry of despair arose that almost drowned the sounds of

conflict. All means of retreat were cut off. Before them lay a deep and

yawning ditch. Behind them pressed an army of assailants. On each side

hundreds of canoes dashed on the causeway, yielding foes who rushed in

fury upon their crowded ranks. All hope seemed lost. All discipline was at

an end. Every one thought only of saving his own life, without regard to

the weak or wounded. The leading files, gathered on the brink of the gulf,

were pressed forward by the rear. The horsemen in front dashed into the

water and swam across, but some of the horses failed to climb the steep

and slippery bank, and rolled back with their mail-clad riders headlong

into the lake.



After them pell mell came the infantry, some seeking to swim, others

forced into the water to sink to a muddy death; many of them slain by the

arrows and war-clubs of the Aztecs; others, wounded or stunned, dragged

into the canoes and carried away to be sacrificed to the terrible war-god

of the pagan foe. Along the whole length of the causeway, from ditch to

ditch, the contest raged fearfully. The Aztecs, satisfied that they had

now got their detested foes in their power, fought like demons, grappling

with the Christians and rolling with them down the sloping way together;

seeking to take their enemies alive that they might be kept for the bloody

sacrifice.



With the horrid shouts of the combatants, the cries of vengeance and

groans of agony, the prayers to the saints and the blessed Virgin, mingled

the screams of women, of whom there were several, both Spaniard and

Indian, in the Christian ranks. One of these, Maria de Estrada, fought as

valiantly as any of the warriors, battling staunchly with broadsword and

target in the thickest of the fray, and proving herself as valiant a

soldier as the best.



During this terrible contest, Cortez was not at rest. He was everywhere,

ordering, fighting, inspiring, seeking to restore the lost discipline to

his ranks. Conscious that all was lost unless the fatal ditch could be

crossed, and feeling that life must be considered before wealth, he

hurried forward everything, heavy guns, ammunition-wagons, baggage-vans,

and hurled them into the water along with the spoil of the Spaniards,

bales of costly goods, chests of solid ingots, everything that would serve

to fill the fatal gap. With these were mingled bodies of men and horses,

drowned in that deadly ditch, the whole forming a terrible pathway across

which the survivors stumbled and clambered until they reached the other

side.



Cortez, riding forward, found a spot in the ditch that was fordable, and

here, with the water up to his saddle-girths, he tried to bring order out

of confusion, and called his followers to this path to safety. But his

voice was lost in the turmoil, and with a few cavaliers who kept with him,

he pressed forward to the van, doubly saddened by seeing his favorite

page, Juan de Salazar, struck down in death by his side.



Here he found the valiant Gonzalo de Sandoval, who, with about twenty

other cavaliers, had led the van, composed of two hundred Spanish

foot-soldiers. They were halted before the third and final breach in the

causeway, a ditch as wide and deep as those which had been passed.

Fortunately it was not so closely beset by the enemy, who were still

engaged with the centre and rear, and the gallant cavaliers plunged

without hesitation into the water, followed by the foot, some swimming,

some clinging desperately to the manes and tails of the horses, some

carried to the bottom by the weight of the fatal gold with which they were

heavily laden. On leaving the fortress in which they had so long defended

themselves, much of the gold which they had gathered was necessarily

abandoned. Cortez told the soldiers to take what they wished of it, but

warned them not to overload themselves, saying, "He travels safest in the

dark night who travels lightest." Many of those who failed to regard this

wise counsel paid for their cupidity with their death.



Those who safely passed this final ditch were at the end of their

immediate peril. Soon they were off the causeway and on solid ground,

where the roar of the battle came more faintly to their ears. But word

came to them that the rear-guard was in imminent danger and would be

overwhelmed unless relieved. It seemed an act of desperation to return,

but the valiant and warm-hearted cavaliers did not hesitate when this cry

for aid was heard. Turning their horses, they galloped back, pushed

through the pass, swam the canal again, and rode into the thick of the

fight on the opposite section of the causeway.



The night was now passing, and the first gray light of day was visible in

the east. By its dim illumination the frightful combat could be seen in

all its horrid intensity. Everywhere lay dead bodies of Christian or

pagan; the dark masses of the warriors could be seen locked in deadly

struggle crowding the blood-stained causeway; while the lake, far and

near, was crowded with canoes, filled with armed and ardent Aztec

warriors, yelling their triumphant war-cry.



Cortez and his companions found Alvarado, who led the rear, unhorsed and

wounded, yet fighting like a hero. His noble steed, which had borne him

safely through many a hard fight, had fallen under him. With a handful of

followers he was desperately striving to repel the overwhelming tide of

the enemy which was pouring on him along the causeway, a dozen of the

Indians falling for every Spaniard slain. The artillery had done good work

in the early part of the contest, but the fury of the assault had carried

the Aztecs up to and over the guns, and only a hand-to-hand conflict

remained. The charge of the returning cavaliers created a temporary check,

and a feeble rally was made, but the flood of foes soon came on again and

drove them resistlessly back.



Cortez and the cavaliers with him were forced to plunge once more into the

canal, not all of them this time escaping. Alvarado stood on the brink for

a moment, uncertain what to do, death behind him and deadly peril before.

He was a man of great strength and agility, and despair now gave him

courage. Setting his long lance firmly on the wreck that strewed the

bottom, he sprang vigorously forward and cleared the wide gap at a bound,

a feat that filled all who saw it with amazement, the natives exclaiming,

as they beheld the seemingly impossible leap, "This is truly the

Tonatiuh,--the child of the Sun!" This name they had given Alvarado from

his fair features and flaxen hair. How great the leap was no one has told

us, though the name of "Alvarado's leap" still clings to the spot.



Thus ended the frightful noche triste, or "doleful night." Cortez led

the remnant of his men off the causeway, a feeble, wounded, straggling

few, faltering from weariness and loss of blood. Fortunately, the Aztecs,

attracted by the rich spoil that strewed the ground, did not pursue, or it

is doubtful if a man of the Spaniards, in their worn and wounded state,

would have survived. How many perished in that night of dread no one

knows. A probable estimate is about five hundred Spaniards and four

thousand natives, nearly all the rear-guard having fallen. Of forty-six

horses, half had been slain. The baggage, the guns, the ammunition, the

muskets, and nearly all the treasure were gone. The only arms left the

warriors were their swords and a few damaged cross-bows, while their mail

was broken, their garments were tattered, their proud crests and banners

gone, their bright arms soiled, and only a miserable and shattered

fragment of their proud force was left, these dragging themselves along

with pain and difficulty.






AZTEC IDOLS CARVED IN STONE.





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.