Impressed as they were by the destruction of their temple and god—an event which was rapidly circulated about the country by hieroglyphical paintings—the Aztecs abated nothing of their attack and siege of the hated white men. All superstitious fear had gone, and the true character of these people the Spaniards had now to learn. Day after day the barbarians came on. Sortie after sortie, sometimes with success, sometimes with severe loss, was made by the Christians, Cortes more than once barely escaping with his life, while numerous Spaniards and horses fell. The labyrinth of streets and cross-canals and bridges much hampered the Spaniards' movements, and houses and walls were torn down to fill these fatal ditches. Distress and famine fell upon the garrison, mutiny arose, and some of the Spaniards cursed themselves and their leader as fools for having left their comfortable homes in Cuba to embark on this mad enterprise, whose termination seemed as if it might be—as indeed it was for many of them—the sacrificial stone of the heathen god.
But Cortes, intrepid and serene in the face of disaster, called them to order. The unfortunate Montezuma, who, buried in a profound melancholy, took no part in the struggle, was urged to address his frenzied people from the tower of the fortification. He consented, and the Aztec warriors without the walls gazed with astonishment on their captured chief, and heard with still greater amazement his commands that strife against the white man should cease. But the power of his name and presence was gone; howls and execration arose from the mob; a stone from a sling struck Montezuma upon the forehead, and he sank back into the arms of the Spaniards and was borne to his quarters. For a space, the mob, horror-struck at its sacrilegious act, fled from the place, and not a man was seen within the square that day. Montezuma, sorely stricken, declined rapidly, and refusing the attentions of Father Olmedo, who knelt at his bedside with uplifted crucifix, sank to his end. "Half an hour of life alone remains me; at least I will die in the faith of my forefathers," he said, adding in expiring tones to Cortes, his last words: "To your care and your Emperor's I commend my daughters, my precious jewels. You, for whose sake I have been brought to indignity and death, will not refuse me this last request." So perished the noble Montezuma.[16]
16 It is stated by some historians that the death of Montezuma was really brought about by Cortes and the Spaniards, who, considering the unfortunate monarch an incumbrance, killed him in captivity; and there are grounds for suspecting that this is true.
The bridges broken, the savages screaming outside the walls, hope of victory gone, there was now no counsel of war for the Spaniards save that of escape. But how? At night and along the great causeway was the only plan. A weird scene it was on the beginning of that Noche Triste—the sorrowful night—which stands forth so unforgetably in the history of the Conquest. Disorder everywhere; piles of gold and valuables upon the floor, each Spaniard, whether cavalier or boor, loading himself with what he thought he could carry. "Pocket what you can," Cortes said, "but recollect that gold is heavy and we have to travel swiftly"—grave advice, the neglect of which cost some their lives upon that awful night.
And then began the retreat along the fatal causeway. It was known that there were three openings in this, and a portable bridge had been made and was borne along to enable passage to be effected. Hurrying on in the hope of passing the breaches before alarm might be given, the Spaniards entered upon the causeway and placed their portable bridge upon the first breach. Was safety to be theirs? No! What was that appalling sound, sonorous and melancholy, which rang over the city and the waters amid the darkness? It was the great drum on the teocalli; the tambor of the war-god, sounded by vigilant priests, calling the people to vengeance and battle. And in their myriads the Aztecs poured forth and fell upon the Christians, raining darts and stones upon them, and making the night hideous with their war-cries. Meanwhile Cortes and the advance guard had passed over, and reached the second breach. "Bring up the bridge!" was, the repeated order, as those behind crowded on. Useless; the bridge was stuck fast in the first breach, wedged down by the weight of guns and horses which had passed over it, and as these dread tidings were heard the mass of men upon the narrow causeway lost their presence of mind. Those behind crowded on those in front; men and horses rolled into the lake; Spaniards and Tlascalans fell victims to the Aztecs, who crowded the water in their canoes and leapt upon the causeway; the shouts of vengeance and triumph of the savages resounded all along the dyke, silencing the muttered oath or prayer of the Christians huddled at the breach. Down went horse and man, artillery and treasure, until with the bodies of Christians and Indians and horses, and bales of merchandise and chests of ammunition the breach was almost filled, and a portion of the fugitives passed over. And now the third breach yawns before them—deep and wide. The morning is dawning upon the fatal scene; the salt waters of the lake have closed over many a gallant Christian head; the frightful causeway is strewn with wreck of man and merchandise. "The rear guard perishes!" and "back and save them!" were the words which rang out then; and Cortes and his remaining cavaliers, who were in the lead, rode back, even in that frightful hour—be it recorded to their honour—and, swimming the breach once more, strove to support their comrades. There stood Alvarado unhorsed and battling, with the savages pressing upon his rear. Escape there seemed none. Canoes and spears teemed on every side, and Cortes and his companions were forced onward. The heroic figure of Alvarado stood up against the grey sky alone—a moment—and then he measured the breach with his eye, whilst—
"Friends and foes in dumb surprise
With parted lips and straining eyes
Stood gazing,"—
but not "where he sank," for sink he did not.[17] Planting his lance on the wreckage in the waters of the breach, after the manner of a leaping-pole, the heroic Spaniard collected his energies, leapt forward, and passed the chasm at a bound. To this day, in the City of Mexico, the spot exists, and is known as the puente de Alvarado.
17 It is stated that the Aztecs paused in admiration of this feat, whilst "the Son of the Sun," as they termed Alvarado, from his fair hair and rubicund visage, performed this extraordinary leap; considering it miraculous.
Away off the causeway into the grey dawn of morning passed the remnant of the routed army, wounded, bleeding, starving, their comrades gone, some to death, some to the sacrifice, and annihilation threatening all. Baggage and artillery were gone, not a carbine was left, and Cortes, seating himself upon the steps of a ruined temple on the shore, wept bitter tears of sorrow and vanished fortune. So passed the Noche Triste.
The next great event of this remarkable campaign was the battle of Otumba. The wretched soldiers, having obtained what rest and nourishment were possible, continued their retreat around the northern part of the lake valley; passed beneath the shadow of the pyramids of Teotihuacan—standing ever there ruined and wrapped in the mystery of their prehistoric builders—and seven days after the events of that awful night crossed the summit of the range which bounds the plain of Anahuac. Thence they set their gaze eastwards towards the coast. What was it that greeted their eyes on the plain below? A mighty army of warriors whose hosts absolutely covered the plain with glowing lance and waving plumes—the forces of the warlike Otomies. So numerous were they that, dressed in their armour of white quilted cotton, it "looked as if the land was covered with snow," as the historians put it. There was nothing for it but to face these fearful odds, and, weakened as they were, the remnant of the Spanish force, encouraged by their leader and exhorted by their priest, fell valiantly on. They were soon wrapped in the enfolding masses of the savages, who attacked them with the utmost ferocity. The cavalry fell back; the Spaniards were stricken on every side, and absolute disaster hung over them. "We believed it to be our last day," Cortes wrote to Spain afterwards. But the tide of battle changed miraculously. In a last furious charge Cortes, followed by the few officers who remained, leaped upon the foe, reached the litter of their chief, and, running him through the body with a lance, tore down the standard. This act saved the day. Stricken with panic at the loss of their leader, the Indians fell into disorder, threw down their arms, and turned and fled. Hot upon them, and thirsting for revenge, poured the Spaniards and Tlascalans—it is to be recollected that the Christians had no firearms nor artillery—and utterly routed them. The victory of Otumba is considered one of the most remarkable in the history of the New World.