During this time, I had a chance to observe how the palace was run, the size of the court, what duties each of the nobles was given, and how each was rewarded, whether in gold or titles. I learned much that I hoped to use someday.
Weeks passed. We lost our sense of time. Twice we tried to escape by way of the canal but were caught and returned to the palace.
Cortés and his men were busy tearing down all the idols they could lay their hands on, erecting crosses, set ting up pictures of the Virgin, lecturing the priests, and trying to turn them into Christians—from all I could hear, without the least success.
One evening while I sat with the emperor, the gold screen between us, listening to him talk about a star he had seen in the sky that gave off clouds of sparkling streamers, Hernán Cortés burst into the room, not both ering to remove his boots, and brushed past the guards. Behind him followed Doña Marina and four of his cap tains.
Gripping the screen, he launched forth into an angry tirade.
“Lord Moctezuma,” he said, “I am astonished that you, a valiant prince who have declared yourself our friend, should have ordered your captains stationed on the coast to take up arms against my Spaniards. I am astonished also at their boldness in robbing towns that are under the protection of our king and master, de manding of them Indian men and women to sacrifice.”
Moctezuma said nothing in reply.
“Being so much your friend,” Cortés went on, “I ordered my captains to serve you in every possible way. But your majesty has acted in quite the opposite fashion toward us. In the affray at Cholólan your captains and a host of warriors received your express commands to kill us. Because of my great affection for you, I overlooked this. But now your captains and vassals have once more lost all shame and are secretly debating whether you do not again wish to have us killed.”
Cortés had been speaking in a loud voice. He now softened his words and stood with his arms folded across his chest. Moctezuma remained silent, but it was plain that he had been deeply wounded.
“However, all you have done will be forgiven,” Cortés went on, “provided you now come with us to our quarters. And make no protest. You will be as well served and attended there as here in your own palace. But if you cry out or raise any commotion, you will be killed immediately by these captains of mine, whom I have brought for this sole purpose.”
The blood drained from Moctezuma’s face. Moments passed before he chose to speak.
“Captain Cortés,” he said, “I have never ordered my people to take up arms against you. I will now summon my captains so that the truth shall be known and the guilty punished.”
He took from his wrist the sign and seal of Uitzilopochtli, which he never called upon except in matters of the first importance.
“I am not a person to whom such an order should be given,” he said. “You are a guest, not the emperor. I have no wish to leave my palace.”
There were several rude remarks from Cortés, silence from Moctezuma, then an interruption by one of the captains, Juan Velásquez.
“What is the use of all these words?” he shouted in a terrifying voice. “Either we take him or we knife him. If we do not look after ourselves, we shall be dead.”
Doña Marina did not translate this threat, but when asked by the emperor what Velásquez had shouted, she said, “I advise you to go with them immediately to their quarters and make no outcry. I know that they will treat you honorably as the great prince you are. If you stay here, you will be a dead man.”
To this the emperor replied, “Lord Cortés, I see what you have in mind. But I have a son and two legitimate daughters. Take them as hostages and spare me this dis grace. What will my chieftains say if they see me carried off as a prisoner?”
I stood speechless during all this.
With the emperor’s simple request, given in a quiet, heartbroken tone, I was moved to interrupt the talk and speak in his behalf. The words were on my tongue. Wisely I kept silent, realizing that nothing I could say would have any effect upon Cortés and, worse, could place me under deep suspicion.
There was some further argument, but in the end Moctezuma agreed to go. Cortés became very ingratiat ing.
“I beg you humbly not to be angry,” he said. “Tell your chieftains and your guards that you go freely. You have consulted with your idol Uitzilopochtli and your wizards, who advise you to accompany us.”
One of the emperor’s fine litters then was brought, and he was taken to the Spanish quarters.
Freed by this happening from the emperor’s prison, Cantú and I began at once to plan another escape. I first tried to reach Don Luis de Arroyo, thinking that, since he had managed an escape from the City of the Seven Serpents, he might be of help. But I found him under heavy guard and unable to talk.
We returned to the wharf once more, only to discover that we were being followed by the emperor’s guards. Without telling us why, they took us back to the barracks. We presumed that the emperor had something to do with this.
I saw Moctezuma many times while he was a captive and he always seemed in good spirits. Surrounded by his musicians and acrobats, attended to by his servants and nobles and wizards, he was wholly resigned to the fate that the stars and many omens had portended.
Cortés treated him courteously and went on with the business of dismantling the temples, to which Mocte zuma did not object.
There were others, however, who did object—not only to the destruction of their idols, but also to the reign of an emperor who they thought had betrayed them.
Anger grew, rumors were hatched and passed about. The causeways were filled with Azteca warriors anxious to fight. The temple square became unsafe after dark, and Spanish cannon were trained upon it night and day.
It was a time of extreme danger. Cantú and I were forced to give up any thought of making our way to the coast.
In the midst of this danger, word came from Vera Cruz that an Admiral Narváez had landed and, with in structions from the governor of Hispaniola to arrest Cortés for disobedience, was marching inland toward Tenochtitlán. Cortés left immediately to drive him back into the sea.
While he was gone the storm broke.
For many years the Azteca nobles had held a feast in the name of their war god, called the perfuming of Uitzilopochtli. They asked permission of Pedro de Alvarado, an officer known for his fighting skills as well as his cruelty, who had been left in command by Cortés, if they could hold the feast again and if Moctezuma could come as an honored guest.
Captain Alvarado replied that the feast could be held but that the emperor must remain in his quarters.
It was a bright day after a week of clouds. The great pyramid shone white. Braziers and urns burned on all the terraces. Flowers were strewn around the square and displayed from the rooftops.
When we went out at the sound of drums and trumpets, nobles were dancing on the temple steps, dressed in feathered cloaks and masks, tinkling bells on their ankles. The square was crowded with Indians and they sang as the nobles danced, tossing flowers at each other.
At the height of the merriment a small cloud of smoke appeared high up on the pyramid, like a white rose. Then there was a roar from a cannon. It was the signal chosen by Pedro de Alvarado for his garrison to rush out with drawn swords.
Those who were not slain there on the steps were caught on long pikes. Those who escaped to the gates of the wall that enclosed the square were killed by musket fire. Not a noble who had come to sing and dance re mained alive. And most of those who had come to watch were torn to shreds by cannon fire.
It was like the scene in Cholólan when blood ran in the gutters and bodies lay everywhere.
CHAPTER 25
CAPTAIN GENERAL CORTÉS RETURNED TO FIND TENOCHTITLÁN IN revolt.
Angered by the desolation that met his eyes and by the problems of calming an outraged city, he first up braided Alvarado for stupidly arousing the Indians and then turned his ire upon Moctezuma, calling him an ungrateful dog
. Afterward, with gentle words, he coaxed the emperor into appearing before his people and ask ing them to lay down their weapons.
Moctezuma roused himself and in his imperial robes walked to the battlements. The crowds bowed before him and were quiet as he spoke. Not angrily against the brutal massacre, as they expected, but gently about their duties.
“Why do I see my people carrying weapons against their king?” he said. “Is it that you think me a prisoner? If so, you are mistaken. I am no prisoner. The strangers are my guests. Have you come to drive them from the city? That is unnecessary. They will depart, if you will only open the gates for them. Return to your homes. Lay down your weapons. The white men shall go back to their own land. And all shall be at peace again within the walls of Tenochtitlán.”
A murmur of contempt swept through the crowd. A noble shouted, “Base Aztecatl, coward, the white men have made you something fit only to weave and spin.”
A second noble raised his javelin and brandished it against the emperor. At once a cloud of stones fell upon the royal train. One of the stones struck Moctezuma’s forehead, knocking him to the ground.
The emperor was borne away amid cries of remorse from the crowd. But their sorrow quickly turned to anger and the crowd again besieged the palace.
Saddened by this happening, I talked to Moctezuma the next morning. He had refused all remedies, had torn off the bandages as soon as they were applied, and as I came before him was wrapped in a bitter silence.
He had sworn himself to silence, and I left without his uttering a word.
Five days later, refusing all Christian comfort, saying, “I will not at this hour desert the faith of my fathers,” the emperor died.
His death marked the closing hours of our days in Tenochtitlán and sent us back to the Spanish quarters.
To counter the hordes that surged in upon us when the news spread, four engines were built of heavy tim ber. These towers, which sheltered twenty-four soldiers and provided loopholes for musketeers and crossbowmen, were sent out the day after Moctezuma’s death, but were overthrown by a crowd of yelling Indians.
That night Cortés ordered us to make ready.
He called the officers and those of us who had served him personally to the emperor’s treasure room. Using rough scales that had been devised, he appraised each gold anklet, each plate, each cup, statue, and trinket. The royal notary was there to supervise the weighing and claim the fifth, la quinta, that belonged to King Carlos. The value of the treasure he estimated to be in excess of two million gold pesos.
The scene was one of wild excitement, rivaling the one aboard the Santa Margarita when Don Luis divided the treasure he had wrung from the Indians of Isla del Oro. There would have been even more excitement had not the threats of our enemies penetrated the thick walls of the treasure house.
I clearly heard one Indian with a stentorian voice shout, “We will throw your bodies to the tigers, lions, and vipers to gorge upon! From your gold you will take small pleasure because you will be dead. And your friends, the Texcaltéca, we will fatten in cages.”
Threats did not bother the dwarf. Dazzled by the piles of shining metal, he took his time in selecting a goodly armful—all he could carry, in fact.
It was now a question of when the army should leave and by what route.
Cortés decided to retreat to Texcála and discuss future operations there.
The causeway of Tlácopan was the longest by which to flee the city but, as the most circuitous, the least likely to be guarded. Cortés made the decision to leave at night after listening to a soldier named Botello, whose astro logical advice he had taken before.
Since there were three canals to cross on the causeway, a portable bridge was constructed and four hundred Indians and fifty soldiers were selected to carry it. We made no more fighting towers, for they had failed us.
Because of my size, I was placed in the squad that was to transport the bridge and position it whenever it was needed. The dwarf, because of his ability to squeeze himself through small holes, accompanied us.
We left our quarters at midnight.
A thin rain was falling as we crossed the square and took the narrow street that led into the causeway Cortés had chosen.
To our surprise, upon reaching the causeway we saw two sentinels standing guard. At our approach they fled howling into the darkness. Immediately the priests keeping night watch on the summit of the temples sounded their horns, and the war drum in the great pyramid temple of Uitzilopochtli sent forth a series of mournful groans.
To our further discomfort, a deep trench had been dug between the street and the causeway that could be crossed only by the use of the portable bridge. It was quickly brought up and slid into place.
The army came in a tight formation behind us. Cortés rode in the lead with half of his officers and Doña Ma rina, the rest of the officers bringing up the rear.
Between them came first the cannoneers, then the foot soldiers, armed with harquebuses, muskets, and cross bows. All of us, officers and soldiers alike, including the dwarf and me, had discarded our steel breastplates for the quilted cotton armor of the Mexica, which was less cumbersome, and more effective against arrows and javelins.
Cortés, in need of all the strength he could muster, had released the rebellious officers from their chains, as well as Don Luis de Arroyo, who was given back the stallion Bravo.
The army passed safely over the bridge without seeing the enemy, though Indians surrounded us on three sides, shouting threats and insults.
The drizzle ceased and a half-moon showed.
On one side was the lake, flat-roofed houses on the other. Beyond the causeway, not twenty paces away, canoes began to appear out of the mist.
The drum in the great pyramid sounded again, sad and drawn out. Whether it was a signal or not, there was suddenly unloosed upon those of us who were carrying the bridge a shower of stones and flaming arrows.
Two men were injured and we had to abandon them. We moved on through the mist, which was turning again to rain. Ahead of us I heard the rattle of muskets but not the sound of cannon. From rooftops, stones and darts fell upon us, accompanied by insults that I did not understand but whose tone left no doubt that the In dians would not rest until they saw us dead.
We moved slowly, carrying the heavy bridge.
Those in the lead shouted back for us to hurry, that they had come to another breach in the causeway. We passed three soldiers slain by arrows and others lying wounded. Two horses had fallen on the slippery road and were struggling beside the lake.
The farther we advanced, the more dead we encoun tered, Azteca and Spaniards alike, lying in our way so that we had to tramp upon their bodies.
We came to the second breach to find the army in disarray, the artillery in a tangle, and the horses neigh ing and trying to stampede. The breach was wider than our bridge. When we attempted to slide it into the breach, the forward end got fouled against the bank. We lit torches and strained at it, but could not pry it loose.
Don Luis, who had appeared from somewhere and stood watching us, said, not to me but to others, “We should have built two bridges instead of one and of dif ferent lengths.”
An officer—one of his friends—answered, “We should have remained in Cuba and saved our lives, which we are about to lose.” Judging from his voice, I guessed that he and his comrades were ready to flee.
The bridge was left where it lay, and the army clam bered over it. But then we came to a third breach.
Here, hundreds of Indians were waiting for us, some massed along the lakeshore, others crouching in canoes. The dwarf was knocked down by a stone that bounced off his quilted armor. Breathless, but not wounded, he began to stagger under his heavy burden of gold, so I helped him carry part of it.
The rain grew heavy. Our torches went out. Darts and javelins showered upon us and many soldiers fell. A horse ran past with its mane on fire.
Cannon were brought up. Because of wet powder, not all
of them fired, but enough did fire to drive the Indians back on the causeway and silence the canoes pressing in on us from the lake.
By now the breach was half-full of crates, spilled sup plies, dead horses, and dead soldiers, so we scrambled as best we could to the far side.
Now that I was no longer burdened by the bridge and the dwarf had a lighter load to carry, I said to him, “We are not fighting against the Azteca. Nor are we fighting for Cortés and his Spaniards. We are fighting to save our lives. If we see a chance to escape, let us take it.”
The dwarf was too exhausted to answer.
The night wore on, but the chance to escape did not come.
Everything was in confusion.
Cortés, from all I could tell, was somewhere beyond us with his musketmen, lost in gray curtains of rain. Be tween us, heavy cannon boomed from time to time, and I heard the whine of a harquebus.
Indians were shooting at us from the lake, moving along beside the causeway in their canoes. We passed a falconet and a gunner sprawled beside it, stripped of his uniform and pierced by arrows. We passed a dead staghound and a wounded Indian who held up his hands, asking for mercy.
I saw a pile of gold bars from a horde that Cortés had melted down, lying on the causeway. They were no larger than a lady’s hand, but their owner had found them too heavy to carry. I left them and said nothing to the dwarf.
We were now at the rear of the army, in a dangerous position, stumbling ahead in the dark, soaked to the bones. The rain stopped again, and we lit torches, which attracted arrows, but we moved faster and felt in better spirits with the torchlight shining.
Near dawn we reached the end of the causeway. Cortés and his men were still out of sight, but I could hear musket fire and cannon.
After leaving the causeway, we went forward on a road that ran deep with muddy water. We passed can non mired to their axles and abandoned, more dead horses, and five dead soldiers in a pile. We came to a small, four-sided pyramid that stood just off the road. Here, in the role he had taken over as our captain, Don Luis pulled in his horse.