Roger the Bold: A Tale of the Conquest of Mexico

by F. S. Brereton

Never before had the enemy received such treatment. They had seen fighting in other parts, and had met the natives of Cuba. But that was child's play to these Mexican fights, where men swarmed out in their thousands, and with the help of their English allies fell upon them. Even their arms had improved during the siege. Numbers carried the crossbow, while spearmen in serried ranks bore down upon the horsemen and the soldiers armed with sword and buckler. And if that were not enough to cause defeat, the canoes which the commanders of the brigantines imagined that they had driven from the lake appeared from a thousand hiding-places, and advancing along the sides of the causeways, galled the retreating armies with their shafts, and dragged men into the water with their long poles and hooks. Could the tale of that eventful day be told, it would include a hundred and more dread single combats fought in the water, would describe how Spaniards, loaded with their armour, fell gasping with their exertions down the slope of the causeway, hooked from their feet by the poles, and then were seized by a dozen frenzied individuals, who threw themselves in a body upon each one, bearing him to the bed of the lake, and holding the unhappy wretch there till he was drowned. But there was worse to follow. The enemy had hardly reached their camp, and crept behind their defences there, when the bulk of the population returned to the city, and there commenced a scene of unparalleled ferocity. They dragged their captives to the huge tower dedicated to the god of war, and drove them to the summit with kicks and buffets. Then they decked them in feathers, and by main force caused them to dance before the idol, and in the sight of their miserable comrades in the camps below. After that came the gruesome sacrifice—a sacrifice which no efforts of Roger could put a stop to.

"They are clean out of hand, these Mexicans," he said with a groan to Philip, as they sat in their quarters below. "I can do nothing with them now, for they are mad. Their superstition is stronger than any belief that they have in me, and these priests control them. It is hateful to think that the wretched prisoners are being sacrificed."

"It makes the blood run cold," agreed Philip, with a shudder. "The death is a cruel one, and you should know something of the agonies endured by these unhappy prisoners. But let it be a warning to Cortes. He came here of his own free will. He and his men have attacked people who were disposed to be friendly, and this is their reward. They came hoping for gold and treasure, and with the wish to stop these human sacrifices. What have they accomplished? Their gold caused the death of numbers in that first retreat, and now, through their persistence, more victims are offered up, while thousands are dying deaths which are far worse and far more miserable than is that suffered on the altar. Pah! Though I hate sacrifice, and know that these enemies long to stop it, I know also that they are hypocrites, that they would sacrifice you and me and all of us this very day if we were captured. We should swing at the end of the causeway."

There was a grunt of assent from Peter Tamworth, while Roger was bound to agree. After all, he thought, what were the lives of the few who had been sacrificed since the coming of Cortes, compared with the lives, the happiness of the thousands perishing in Mexico.

"The fight will wane," he said, "but the net will not be opened; it will close in more tightly, until the end comes. Cortes will never give way."

Nor did our hero prove wrong in this surmise, for for many days the siege languished. Fighting still continued, but it was half-hearted. Meanwhile the huge success attained by the Mexicans brought numbers of vacillating adherents to their side, while thousands of the native allies left the army gathered under the banner of Castile. It was a turn in the fortunes of Fernando Cortes, and many another leader would have given way. But this redoubtable general was a diplomatist and a sagacious tactician as well. He rallied the natives to his banner again, and then once more pushed on with the attack. When seventy-four days had passed Fernando Cortes was in possession of more than seven-eighths of the city. In the remaining portion were gathered the survivors of the gallant defence.

Tall and gaunt, looking more like a slim ghost than the Roger of this story, our hero waited for the end, determined to see the siege to its bitter point. For days he had eaten nothing but a few herbs gathered from odd crevices by the faithful Tamba, while a fish sometimes added to his repast. Ten of his comrades were dead. The remainder were skeletons, too weak almost to walk, only able to fight when pressed by dire necessity. All were parched with thirst. As for the people of the unfortunate city, they had died literally in their tens of thousands. The streets were filled by their unburied bodies; they lay in the courtyards, in the temple squares, and in their houses, piled thickly together. Those who survived walked listlessly here and there, or squatted on the ground, too weak to move. They waited for the very last—for the coming of the Spaniards and of their allies.

"Nothing can save them," said Roger, huskily. "These native allies slaughter the poor people like sheep, and they are so weak that they make no resistance. It is terrible! Would that the priests would allow the king to surrender. But they will not do that. We shall fight to the bitter end, and then there are canoes to take us away. Remember and warn all our comrades. When the horn sounds they are to rush to the stage at the back of the palace, and there embark. We have the Spanish guns there, and just sufficient ammunition for one discharge; perhaps we shall succeed in getting off. Now let us go to our positions. This, surely, must be the last day of all."

An hour later the Spaniards swarmed into the city, and a desperate encounter commenced, the native allies bursting into the houses and killing those who were helpless. Others who still had strength and determination to fight retreated to the palace, showing a firm face to the enemy. But even they at length became demoralized, and soon the scene was one of confusion. Natives hunted for Mexicans on every side. Friends and enemies were mixed together, when Roger and his party, all separated by now, made the best of their way towards the landing-stage. Suddenly our hero gave expression to a startled cry.

"Alvarez!" he exclaimed in a whisper. "The traitor, and by himself! He is seeking for some one and——ah, there is the priest! The artful rogue has made him captive."