Chapter XXVIII: A Battle in Mid-Air

So fierce was the Aztec temper, that, with earliest dawn of the third day of fighting, they were swarming at the walls. So determined was their assault, that, ere they could be driven back, nearly a thousand of them had leaped inside, and gained the courtyard. Although these fought with a desperation that resulted in serious injury to the garrison, most of them were quickly despatched by the Tlascalans, among whom they had appeared. A number, however, escaped, and darted into the numerous buildings of the old palace. Here, though the Tlascalans pursued them like ferrets after rats, they managed to set numerous fires, kill or wound several persons, stab Cortes himself through the hand, and do an immense amount of mischief before being finally hunted down and destroyed. A few more assaults as desperate and successful as this would seal the fate of the besieged, and, even to the bravest, their situation began to appear alarming.

In this strait, Cortes appealed to his royal prisoner and urged him to use his influence with his subjects to bring about a cessation of hostilities. This, Montezuma at first refused to do; but, when assured that the invaders would willingly leave the city if a way were opened to him, he finally consented. Arrayed for the occasion in his most kingly robes, he was escorted to the roof of the central turret of the palace by a brilliant retinue of those Aztec nobles who still shared his fortunes, and a number of Spanish cavaliers.

In the streets below the battle was raging furiously; but, as his subjects recognized their monarch, the din of clashing weapons and fierce war-cries instantly ceased. The tumult of war was succeeded by a stillness as of death. Many of the Aztecs prostrated themselves to the ground; others bowed their heads; but some gazed, unabashed, and even defiantly, at the king, whose weak-minded superstition had lost him his kingdom. More than one of these daring spirits secretly fitted an arrow to his bowstring, and nervously fingered it. In more than one breast a sacrilege was meditated that, though certain to be avenged by the gods, might, after all, be for the best. But first they would hear what this dishonored king had to say.

He was bidding them disperse, and do no further harm to his friends the white men, who, if allowed, would willingly return whence they came.

This would never do! The priests of the war-god were greedy for the victims, who were on the point of surrendering themselves. Should they be balked of their prey by this king, who was already as good as dead? Never! Let him die, and be no longer an impediment to their vengeance! With him out of the way, the destruction of the Christians and their base allies would be an easy matter! Then would the gods rejoice! Then would their favor be restored! and again would Anahuac take her proper place as leader of the nations! Down with Montezuma! Long live Cuitlahua! To the altars with Spaniard and Tlascalan!

So whispered the busy priests, darting from one to another. The whisper grew into a murmur, and it quickly rose to a storm of fierce cries.

Now was the time! An arrow, aimed by a subject at his king, hissed through the air. A cloud of arrows followed it. Spanish bucklers were interposed too late, and, as Montezuma fell, a frenzied yell of triumph arose from the multitude.

Then a reaction set in. What would the gods do? "To the temple!" was the cry. "The priests must plead for us!" The priests themselves spread this shout, exulting, as they did so, in its evidence of their unimpaired power. So the throngs hastened away toward the temples, until, in a short time, not a person remained in the great square fronting the Spanish quarters.

In the meantime, Montezuma, borne tenderly below, and laid on his royal bed still dressed in his robes of state, was dying. The priests of his own race came not near him. They had no use for a dying king! Already were they busy with preparations for crowning another, who would heap their altars with victims, and add to their power, until they should become objects of fear and worship, even as were the gods themselves. Already was Topil, the chief priest, preparing a sacrifice such as had not been known at an Aztec coronation for nearly four centuries. He had a Toltec in reserve for the altar. Not only that, but a Toltec who had masqueraded as an Aztec priest, and had been detected in a vile conspiracy against the gods. Besides, he had a few Spaniards in his dungeons, and when had Christian blood been spilled at an Aztec coronation? Never before!

So Montezuma, the king who might have been all-powerful, died, because of his superstitious weakness, and the gods did not avenge his death, but allowed Cuitlahua, his brother, to reign in his stead.

The great temple of Huitzil stood so near the ancient palace in which the Spaniards and their allies were quartered, as to overlook it. A quantity of stones and heavy timbers had been conveyed to its summit under cover of darkness, and one morning the Christians were dismayed to find these thundering down on them from the lofty height. At the same time came such flights of arrows, as denoted the presence on this vantage ground of a large body of warriors. In connection with this attack, came another of those furious assaults on their works, of which the enemy seemed never to tire. It was at once realized that if they would escape speedy destruction, the temple must be carried, and Cortes detailed one hundred men, under Escobar, the chamberlain, for the purpose.

Three separate charges did this officer and his brave followers make in their effort to capture the huge teocal; but each time they were repulsed with serious loss. Finally, Escobar returned with but half his men, leaving the others where they had fallen. He, and all of the survivors, were wounded, some of them so severely that they died soon after, and the capture of the temple was reported to be an impossibility.

Cortes declaring that nothing was impossible, that the place must be captured, and that he would either accomplish it or die in the attempt, detailed another storming party of three hundred Spaniards, and two thousand Tlascalan warriors. These last were headed by their young chieftain, while the whole force was led by the General in person. Fifteen minutes of furious fighting forced a passage through the throng of Aztecs occupying the temple court, and placed the assailants at the foot of the first of the five flights of stone steps by which the top was to be reached.

Leaving the Tlascalans and a score of musketeers to repel the Aztecs, who were making constant efforts to regain possession of the court, the leader, closely followed by Sandoval, Huetzin, and the other gallant cavaliers of the storming party, sprang up the first stairway. On each of the terraces above them stood strong bodies of the enemy to dispute their passage. These showered down arrows and darts, together with great stones and massive timbers. Most of the latter bounded harmlessly over the heads of the scaling party, but every now and then one would crash into their ranks, and, sweeping some of the unfortunate Spaniards from their narrow foothold, hurl them lifeless to the bottom. In spite of the terrible odds thus presented, the dauntless conquerors fought their way foot by foot, from terrace to terrace, and from stairway to stairway, ever upward, until at length the lofty summit was attained.

Here, in sight of the whole city the opposing forces closed in furious combat, of such a phenomenal nature, that all other hostilities were suspended by mutual consent, in order that this death-struggle in mid-air might be watched without interruption. The priests of the temple, seeming more like demons than human beings, with their blood-clotted locks and savage aspect, fought like such. They rushed at the Spaniards with incredible fury, and, in many cases, forced them over the awful brink, willing to sacrifice their own lives in the leap to death, if they could only carry the hated Christians with them.

Once, in the midst of the fighting, Huetzin heard his own name called in accents of despair, and saw his brother Sandoval whose sword had snapped off at the hilt, struggling with half a dozen of these fiends, who had forced him to within a few feet of the edge. In a moment the young Toltec had hewed a way to his friend's side, and in another Sandoval was free to snatch the sword of a dying cavalier, and plunge once more into the thickest of the fight. For three dreadful hours did the combat rage. At the end of that time a remnant only of the gallant band of assailants remained masters of the bloody arena. Every Aztec, priest, noble, or warrior, had either been slain, or hurled from the giddy height.

Some of the survivors entered the sanctuary where sat the frightful image of Huitzil, the war-god. Bound to the altar in front of it they discovered a man. His eyes were torn from their sockets; his limbs were broken, and he bore other evidences of the most diabolical tortures. That he still lived, in spite of all, was attested by his feeble moanings. For a moment the victors paused aghast at the sight. Then one from among them sprang forward, and knelt beside this pitiful victim of the most hideous religion known to the New World. He was Huetzin, and in the cruelly mutilated form before him, he still recognized Tlalco the Toltec, the priest who, on three separate occasions, had saved him from a like awful fate.