CHAPTER XI.
STRAITNESS OF THE FAMINE. THE FINAL CONFLICT. FLIGHT AND CAPTURE OF GUATIMOZIN. DESTINY FULFILLED.
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Death opens every door, And sits in every chamber by himself. If what might feed a sparrow should suffice For soldiers’ meals, ye have not wherewithal To linger out three days. For corn, there’s none; A mouse, imprisoned in your granaries, Were starved to death. |
This shameful defeat was a tremendous blow to the ardent anticipations of the conqueror. Many of the timid and the discontented in his own ranks availed themselves of the opportunity to create divisions, and withdraw from the doubtful contest. The Mexicans, strengthened by the spoils of their assailants, and yet more by the new courage which their late success infused into every heart among them, immediately commenced repairing their works, clearing their canals, and making the most vigorous preparations for maintaining the siege. Their priests, infuriated with the number of sacrifices which they had been enabled to offer to the gods, from the captives of high and low degree taken in the conflict, declared with authoritative solemnity, that the anger of the gods was now appeased, and that they had promised unequivocally, the speedy annihilation of their invading foes. This oracular declaration was, by the order of Guatimozin, published in the hearing of the Indian allies of his adversary. It was a politic stroke, and, if the oracle had not imprudently fixed too early a day for the execution of the predicted vengeance, its effect might have been such as to break for ever the bonds of that unnatural alliance, and leave the little handful of white men, with all their boasted pretensions to immortality, to perish by the hands of their own friends.
But why dwell longer upon the appalling details of this miserable siege. The day of predicted vengeance arrived, and the Spaniards survived it. Their superstitious terror-stricken allies returned to their allegiance. By a judicious administration of reward and discipline, of promise and threatening, all disaffection was hushed. New measures of offence were concerted, with a determination, on the part of the besiegers, to press into the city by degrees, securing every step, as they advanced, by levelling every building, and filling up every ditch, in their progress, till not one stone should be left upon another in Tenochtitlan. This terrible resolution was carried into effect. Every building, whether public or private, palace, temple, or Teocalli, from which they could be annoyed by the indomitable Aztec, was laid waste. The canals were filled up and levelled, so as to give free scope for the movements of the cavalry and artillery. The beautiful suburbs were reduced to a level plain, a dry arid waste, covered with the ruins of all that was dear and sacred in the eyes of the Aztec. Slowly, but surely, the Spaniard pressed on towards the heart of the city, in which the heroic monarch, with his miserable remnant of starving subjects and skeleton soldiers were pent up, dying by thousands of famine and pestilence, and yet ready to suffer a thousand deaths, rather than yield themselves up to the mercy of the foe.
There was now absolutely nothing left, in earth or air, to sustain for another day the poor remains of life in the camp of the besieged. Every foot of ground had been dug over many times, in quest of roots, and even of worms. The leaves and bark had been stripped from every tree and shrub, till there was not a green thing on all those terraces, which were once like the gardens of Elysium. The dead and the dying lay in heaps together, for there was neither life nor spirit in any that breathed, to do the last office for the departed. Pestilence was in all the air, so that many even of the besieging army snuffed it in the breeze that swept over the city, and fell victims to the very fate which their cruel rapacity was inflicting on the besieged.
Famine, cruel, gnawing famine, was in the palace of the Emperor, as well as in the hovel of his meanest subject. That noble prince quailed not before the fate that awaited himself. Had he stood alone in that citadel, with power in his single arm to keep out the foe, he would have stood till death, in whatever form, released him from his post, and spurned every suggestion of compromise or quarter. But the scenes of utter distress which every where met his eye—the haggard ghosts of his friends, flitting restlessly before him, or crawling feebly and with convulsive moans among the upturned earth, in the forlorn hope of finding another root—the dead—the dying—the more miserable living longing for death, and glaring with their horribly prominent, but glazed and expressionless eye-balls on each other—this, this was too much for the heart of Guatimozin.
“What!” he exclaimed, “shall I submit to see my last friend die before my eyes, and my own sweet wife perish of hunger, only to retain for another hour the empty name of king. No. I will endure it no longer. I will go to Malinché, alone, and unaccompanied, and offer my life for yours. He only wants our gold. Let him find that if he can. He will spare you, and wreak all his vengeance on my head.”
A faint murmur ran through the crowd, and then a feeble expiring “No, never,” burst feebly from many lips. One, a little stronger than the rest, arose and said—
“Most gracious sovereign, think not of us. We only ask to live and die with and for you. And the more cruel the death, the more glorious the martyrdom for our country and our gods. Trust not Malinché.”
The speaker fainted and fell, with his fist clenched, and his teeth set, as if he felt that he held the last foe in mortal conflict.
“No, never—trust not Malinché—let us die together,” was echoed by many sepulchral voices, that seemed more like the groans of the dead, than the remonstrances of the living.
“Trust not Malinché, remember my father,” whispered the fond, devoted, faithful, affectionate wife, now the shadow of her former self, beautiful in her queenly sorrow, sublime in her womanly composure.
Guatimozin, the proud, the lofty chief, whose heart had never known fear, whose soul had never been subdued, bowed his head upon the bosom of his wife, and wept. The strong heart, the lion spirit melted.
“Who, who will care for Tecuichpo? Who will cherish the last daughter of Montezuma?”
“Think not of me, Guatimozin, think of yourself and your people, I am resigned to my fate. If I may but die with you, it is all I desire—for how could I live without you. But think not of trusting Malinché. Let us remain as we are. Another day, and we shall all be at rest from our sufferings. And surely it were better to die together by our altars, than to fall into the hands of the treacherous stranger.”
“Trust not Malinché,” added Karee. “Was it not trust in him that brought all this evil upon us? Think not of submission. You shall see that women can die as well as men. Let Malinché come, and take possession of the remains of these mutilated walls and desolated gardens, but let him not claim one living Aztec, to be his slave, or his subject.”
A murmur of approbation followed, and then a long pause ensued. It was like the silence of death. The whole scene would have made an admirable picture. At length the silence was broken by the voice of the young Cacique of Tlacopan.
“My sovereign,” said he, in a faint voice, but with something of the energy of despair, “there is yet hope. Let us muster what force we can, of men who are able to stand, and sally out upon the enemy. We cannot do him much harm. But, while he is occupied with us, you and your family, with a few attendants can escape by a canoe over the lake. As many of us as have life and strength to do it, will follow you, under cover of the coming night. Your old subjects will flock around you there, and we may yet, when we shall have tasted food, and become men again, make a stand somewhere against the foe, and drive him out.”
“It is well! it is well!” was the feeble response on every side.
“I cannot leave you,” replied the monarch. “What! shall your king fly, like a coward, while his people rush upon the enemy only to cover his retreat? No, that were worse than death—worse than captivity!”
“It is not flight, my beloved sovereign,” responded the Cacique, “it is an honorable stratagem of war, for the good of the nation, not less than your own. When you are gone, we have no head, and we fall at once into the captivity we so much dread. Leave us but the name and person of Guatimozin to rally around, and it will be a tower of strength, which can never fail us.”
“Yes, yes, it is right,” was whispered on every side—“Go, noble monarch, go at once. It is a voice from heaven to save us.”
To this counsel the priests added their earnest advice, and even Tecuichpo ventured to say, “it whispered of hope to her heart.” Guatimozin suffered himself to be overruled. The canoes were made ready in the grand canal, which yet remained open on the eastern side. All that could be safely taken of treasure, and of convenient apparel, was carefully stowed. The Queen and other ladies of the court, with her faithful Karee, all wasted to skeletons, and moving painfully, like phantoms of beauty in a sickly dream, were conveyed to the barges. The Emperor and his attendants followed, and all was in readiness for the departure. At that moment the martial horn was sounded from the great Teocalli, and the shadowy host of the Aztec army staggered forth to offer battle to the enemy. It was a fearful sight. It seemed as if the armies of the dead, the mighty warriors of the past, had risen from their graves, to fight for their desecrated altars, and to defend those very graves from profanation. Feebly, but fearfully, with glaring eyes and hideous grin, they rushed upon the serried ranks of the besiegers. A kind of superstitious terror seized them, as if these shapes were something more than mortal. For a moment they gave way to panic, and fell back without striking a blow. Roused by the stentorian voice of Cortez, they rallied instantly, and discharging their heavy fire arms, swept away whole ranks of their frenzied assailants. It was a brief conflict. Many of the Aztecs fell by the swords of the Spaniards, and the spears of their merciless allies. Some fell, faint with their own exertions, and died without a wound. Some grappled desperately with the foe, content to die by his hand, if they could first quench their burning thirst with one drop of his blood.
At length, a long blast from the horn sounded a retreat. The poor remnant turned towards the city, and were suffered to escape unmolested to their desolate homes.
Meanwhile, the little fleet of Guatimozin had put forth upon the lake. The canoes separated, as they left the basin of the canal, taking different directions, the better to escape the observation of the brigantines. The precaution was a wise one, but unavailing. The watchful eye of the besieging general was there. The brigantines gave chase to the fugitives. Bending to their paddles with the utmost strength of their feeble emaciated arms, they found their pursuers gaining upon them. Casting their gold into the lake, Guatimozin directed them to cease their exertions, and wait the approach of the enemy.
“Not without one little effort more, I beseech you,” exclaimed Karee. “See, my chinampa is close at hand. Let us try to gain that. It has food on its trees for many days, and I have there a place of concealment, curiously contrived beneath the water, where you and the queen may remain without fear of detection, till we can effect your escape to the shore.”
In an instant the paddles were in the water, and the canoe shot ahead with unusual speed. The combined energy of hope and despair nerved every arm, and fired every heart. They neared the beautiful chinampa. Their eyes feasted on its fresh and cooling verdure, and its ripe fruits hanging luxuriantly on every bough. Their ears were ravished with the music of the birds, who had long since deserted their wonted haunts in the capital.
While the chase was gaining rapidly upon them, another of those fearful brigantines, which had hitherto been concealed by the thick foliage of the chinampa, rounded its little promontory, and appeared suddenly before them. Instantly, every paddle dropped, every arm was paralyzed. Not a word was spoken. In passive silence each one waited for his doom, which was now inevitable. When the Spaniard had approached within hailing distance, the Emperor rose in his little shallop, and, waving his hand proudly, said, “I am Guatimozin.”
The royal prisoners were treated with the utmost deference and respect. Being brought into the presence of Cortez, the monarch, pale, emaciated, the shadow of what he had been, approached with an air of imperial dignity, and said—
“Malinché, I have done what I could to defend myself and protect my people. Now I am your prisoner. Do what you will with me, but spare my poor people, who have shown a fidelity and an endurance worthy of a better fate.”
Cortez, filled with admiration at the proud bearing of the young monarch, assured him that not only his family and his people, but himself should be treated with all respect and tenderness. “Better,” said Guatimozin, laying his hand on the hilt of the general’s poignard, “better rid me of life at once, and put an end to my cares and sufferings together.”
“No,” replied Cortez, “you have defended your capital like a brave warrior. I respect your patriotism, I honor you valor, and your firm endurance of suffering. You shall be my friend and the friend of my sovereign, and live in honor among your own people.”
The keen eye of the monarch flashed with something like indignation, when allusion was made to the king of Castile, and to himself as his vassal.
“In honor I cannot live,” he said proudly, “for I am defeated. A king I cannot be, for he is no king who is subject to another. I am your prisoner. The gods have willed it, and I submit.”
Renewing his politic assurances of friendship and favor, the conqueror sent for the wife and family of his captive, first ordering a royal banquet to be prepared for them. Supported by Karee, leaning on the arm of the devoted Nahuitla, the lord of Tlacopan, the queen was ushered into the presence of the conqueror. Her appearance struck the general and his officers with admiration. Timid as she was by nature, she had the air and port of inborn royalty; and, in deference to her husband, she would not have allowed herself to quail before the assembled host of Castile, dreaded as they were, and had long been. With a becoming courtesy, she returned the respectful salutations of Malinché and his cavaliers, and asked no other favor than to share the fate of her lord.
What that fate was, and how the Castilian knight redeemed his pledges to his unfortunate and noble captives, is matter of historical record. It is the darkest page in the memoir of that wonderful chief—a foul blot upon the name even of that man, who was capable of requiting the superstitious reverence and confidence of a Montezuma, with a treacherous and inglorious captivity in his own palace, and a yet more inglorious death at the hands of his own subjects. History must needs record it, dark and painful as it is. Romance would throw a veil over it.
Years of intense suffering, of harrowing bereavement, of insult, humiliation, and every species of mental and social distress, were yet appointed to the daughter of Montezuma, the bride of Guatimozin. Her predicted destiny was fulfilled to the letter. She bowed meekly to her fate, sustaining every reverse with a fortitude and composure of soul, that indicated a mind of uncommon resources. It was a long, dark, stormy day, “but in the evening time there was light.” It was the light of faith. She abandoned the false gods of her fathers, and found true and lasting peace in the cross of Jesus Christ.
THE FLIGHT
OF
THE KATAHBA CHIEF.
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Go now to Greece, Or Rome—to Albion’s sea-girt isle—to Gaul, Ancient or modern—to the fiery realm Of Turk or Arab—to the ice-bound holds Of Alaric and Attila—and find, If find thou canst, a nobler race of men— More firm, more brave, more true—swifter of foot, Or readier in action. |