Sandoval turned to Cortés. ‘So much for peace,’ he said. ‘Do you still believe good things come from bad things?’
* * *
Thus far, while allowing Pepillo to wear his sword, Cortés had ordered him to remain with the baggage train, well protected by a mass of infantry, though his index finger was fully healed now and he was eager to fight. Even so, he’d not been entirely insulated from the action, and had been given an oversized cuirass to strap on and an ancient helm to protect him against the enemy spears and arrows that came raining in. Shrieking warriors had broken through the shield wall twice, but on each occasion they’d been struck down in moments by the guard and trampled to bloody pulp underfoot. They had got nowhere near Pepillo.
Today it looked as though he might be given a more active role to play. As the conquistadors prepared for the massive attack of the Tlascalan force, Bernal Díaz came to Pepillo bearing armour. ‘Try this for size, instead of what you’re wearing,’ he said gruffly.
The padded lining of the cuirass he held out was heavily stained with dried blood. ‘It was Sedeno’s,’ Díaz explained. ‘He was about your height and he’s got no use for it now. Try this too,’ he added, handing over Sedeno’s helm.
Pepillo strapped the armour on and the helm; both fitted him well. ‘Thank you, Bernal!’
‘But stay well back if you can. You’ve no experience in the line of battle and these Tlascalans are the very devil.’
Pepillo resolved that under no circumstance would he stay back – after all, he’d had no orders from the caudillo to say that he should – but he decided to do what he could to keep Melchior safe. Holding the dog by his leash, he sought out Malinal and asked her to look after him. ‘Better you put him inside,’ she said, pointing to an empty hut with a proper door. ‘Maybe the caudillo need me any time.’
Pepillo nodded and, with some misgivings, closed Melchior away, blocking the door with a stone. Objecting to being shut in, the big lurcher barked indignantly and battered the door with his huge paws, but Pepillo was satisfied he wouldn’t be able to break out. He looked over to the other dogs, straining at their leashes; they were in five packs of ten, evenly distributed around the low rubble wall, bristling with cannon, which the conquistadors had built to protect the summit of the hill. Amongst the handlers was Santisteban, who had been watching him and now gave him an evil glare.
All around the hill, their ranks stretching back miles in every direction, the Indians were making a furious din but had still not attacked. Cortés had been watching them closely, even as the conquistadors made a hasty breakfast of the unexpected bounty of food. ‘I’ve had enough of this,’ he said. Pepillo saw his master summon Francisco de Mesa, the grey-haired chief of artillery.
‘You’re loaded with grapeshot?’ Cortés asked.
‘Loaded and ready, Caudillo.’
‘Then fire on the bastards, Mesa, and may God save their souls.’
* * *
The first salvo, from all guns, did tremendous damage, but not to the tens of thousands of Indians clustered closest to the base of the hill; the incline was steep and the barrels of the falconets and the lombards could not be depressed sufficiently to be brought to bear on them. Further back in the packed enemy ranks, however, ragged gaps now appeared, a great shrieking and wailing filled the air and the nearest warriors, ululating and blowing conches, charged up the hill into a withering volley of musket and crossbow fire. Men fell in droves, fouling the feet of those around them, but still the mass of Indians came on and, before the cannon could be reloaded, they’d reached the perimeter wall where the conquistadors met them with swords, pikes and spears.
Seeing a gap in the line of defence, Pepillo rushed forward, drawing his sword and plunged its point into the naked stomach of a painted, grimacing savage. He was startled by the wet suck of guts as he withdrew, seeing the blood gush forth, having no time to feel shock or revulsion that he’d just killed his first man, already raising his blade to parry a blow aimed at his head by another warrior, relieved that his attacker was immediately struck down by a Spanish pike.
From then on, as wave after wave of Indians surged up to batter at the defences and were again and again thrown back, Pepillo lost all track of time, and seemed rather to be embedded within an endless nightmare present, surrounded by a sea of heaving bodies, his ears assaulted by the roar of cannons and muskets firing into the attacking throng at point-blank range, the clash of blades, the screams of the enemy, the battle cries of the Spaniards and the stinking sweet stench of blood and shit and piss. Many times obsidian-edged swords and spear points struck harmlessly against his armour, and thrice his unprotected arms and legs took cuts and stabs that he barely noticed, so intense was the press all around him, so urgent the need to stab and thrust, parry and block. Then, just when the Indian throng pressed closest and threatened to overwhelm the perimeter, the dogs were unleashed and tore into the attackers, a host of vengeful demons ripping out throats and bellies, feeding on spilled bowels, here worrying a man’s face, there tearing open a thigh in a spout of arterial blood. And amongst them – how could this be? – Pepillo caught a brief glimpse of Melchior, his brindled body unprotected by armour, running in the pack with Jairo, the mastiff that had become his friend during the weeks he spent with the hounds.
The onslaught of the dogs, coinciding with a powerful massed salvo of grapeshot from the cannon, broke the attack on the stronghold of Tzompach and the Indian horde turned and fled down the slope of the hill towards the plain below.
‘Santiago and at them!’ shouted Cortés, leaping into Molinero’s saddle and jumping the huge horse clean over the perimeter wall, closely followed by Alvarado, Sandoval, Davila, Velázquez de Léon and the other cavaliers. ‘Santiago and at them,’ bellowed the men all around Pepillo, as he found himself amongst a mass of yelling, cheering foot soldiers running full tilt after the cavalry and the retreating Indians, who they pursued far out onto the flat land below until suddenly they rallied and turned upon the Spaniards with savage glee.
Even as Pepillo searched desperately for Melchior and could not find him anywhere in the bewildering, heaving melee, he noticed how the character of the fight had changed and wondered if the Indian retreat had perhaps been a ruse. The cannon up on Tzompach could no longer be used for fear of hitting the Spaniards below, who now found themselves surrounded by numberless Indians with no barricade except their shields to protect them. Amongst the enemies were hundreds of slingers, who sent stones whizzing through the air, thick as hail. Men in full armour, their heads protected by steel helms, were struck down by lucky shots. Then there were the bowmen whose arrows, double-barbed and hardened in the fire, darkened the sky as they came pouring in, and again men fell and the ground underfoot sprouted with spent shafts, thick as corn waiting to be threshed.
While the Spaniards were thus discomfited, raising their shields to deflect the constant volleys of slingshots and arrows, disciplined bands of warriors charged in on them, trying their luck with spears and wooden broadswords, often seeking to lay hands on the defenders rather than to kill them immediately, no doubt intending to drag them off for sacrifice. But that tactic was their undoing, opening them up to the furious thrusts of the defenders, whose blades of good Toledo steel cut through primitive shields of wicker and hide to kill and maim indiscriminately. Pepillo lost count of the number of men who came at him, tugging at his hair, his shoulder, his arm, with almost suicidal bravery, only to fall to his sword and be replaced by another. One sweating savage, his eyes rolling, the teeth in his gaping mouth filed to sharp points, did succeed in jerking him off balance and pulling him out of the line of defenders but, even as he stumbled, he lunged with the blade Escalante had given him, driving its point home through the Indian’s exposed armpit and deep into his chest, causing him to emit a high-pitched screech of pain – aieee! – and let go his hold long enough for Pepillo to jerk his blade free and scurry back into the Spanish square.
Four defensive squares of
different sizes had formed, an automatic tactic for the conquistadors, the moment the pursuit of the Indians fleeing out onto the plain had transformed into a massed counter-attack. Meanwhile the cavalry ranged free, the thirteen remaining riders sometimes drawing up in line abreast and charging the Tlascalans with shocking effect, the ground shaking beneath the steel-shod hooves of the heavy destriers, sometimes wheeling round to defend the infantry squares where they came under heaviest pressure. As to the hounds, Vendabal and his assistants had lost all control of them, but the dogs knew what to do and darted amongst the enemy, protected by their own plate and mail and doing terrible harm. From time to time, Pepillo caught a glimpse of his Melchior, unarmoured, covered in blood – although whether it was his own or from those he tore and rent with his teeth was impossible to say. In the heat of battle, Melchior was fearless, and seemed to have turned feral, working with Jairo to hunt down and kill the enemy.
For a moment, despite shouts of warning from Cortés and the other captains, one of the squares was disrupted by a ferocious Tlascalan onslaught, five hundred men at least who fell upon the defenders and broke their shield wall, driving a wedge into their midst. It seemed all was lost, but a cavalry charge spearheaded by Cortés and Sandoval, and incredible feats of swordplay, allowed the defenders to repel the screaming throng from their midst and re-form their ranks.
The sun had begun to fall into the western half of the sky, and Pepillo was weary to his bones, dust clogging his nostrils, blood clotting and drying on his clothes, all the men around him in an equally exhausted and dishevelled state, their water bottles empty, the energy and even their courage flagging, when a further change began to come over the battle. It was not so much a single dramatic incident as something slow and evolving – a gradual, phased withdrawal of the Indian horde. For the past hour -- with great difficulty because their crews were under constant attack – six of the falconets had been brought down from the hill and deployed amongst the infantry, firing grapeshot out of the squares into the massed ranks of the enemy, killing so many that they could not be numbered and their bodies lay thick on the ground.
It seemed it was this, more than any other single factor, that had turned the tide, and the Tlascalan withdrawal, while never becoming a rout, grew increasingly rapid, so much so that Vendabal issued an order to call the dogs back. There were still sizeable bands of Indians retreating from the field, however, so groups of soldiers were assigned to protect the handlers as they pulled the dogs away from corpses they were feasting on. Pepillo had just spotted Melchior – Hemes and Julian had him and Jairo by their collars – when a disciplined group of the enemy, perhaps fifty in number, who’d seemed moments before to be in full flight, isolated Santisteban and Vendabal from the others and swarmed around them, seemingly intent on carrying them off.
It all happened very fast. The big dour conquistador Guillen de Laso, who’d several times taken Cortés’s side in meetings to decide the future of Villa Rica, was placed to Pepillo’s right. ‘Santiago and at them,’ he roared, raising his battle-axe above his head and charging towards the skirmish with the rest of those who’d defended the square, Pepillo amongst them, streaming out behind him. At the same moment Melchior and Jairo tore themselves away from Hemes and Julian and raced to join the fray, Jairo taking the ankle of one of the Indians between his huge jaws, bringing the man down and leaping forward to seize his throat, while Melchior vanished into the throng around Vendabal and Santisteban, snarling and biting. Seconds later, Guillen de Laso threw himself into the fight and struck a series of huge blows with his axe, splitting men’s heads like cords of wood. Pepillo was right behind him, the tip of his sword licking out. Several times he felt the shock of blows against his cuirass, but the steel saved him and he cut his way through to where Vendabal and Santisteban stood back to back, defending themselves with knives, both bleeding from multiple wounds, as Indians tried to grapple them and drag them off for sacrifice. But Melchior was amongst them, his jaws dripping gore, his teeth tearing their unprotected thighs and buttocks, oblivious to the daggers and spears that cut down at him as Pepillo rushed to his aid, striking two men dead before Guillen de Laso’s whirling axe drove the remnants of the band onto the swords of the other conquistadors.
Suddenly silence fell, and Pepillo dropped to his knees beside Melchior, urgently checking his bloodied hide for wounds. Miraculously there were only a few deep cuts; most of the blood, as he’d hoped, must have come from others. ‘Good boy!’ Pepillo said. ‘Good boy!’ The big lurcher, who had seemed such a fiend moments before, no less savage than any of the other war dogs, now wagged his long tail with evident joy at the praise and nuzzled Pepillo’s face.
When he looked up he found Santisteban watching him. There was something unfathomable in his eyes. Was it sadness? Anger? Guilt? Jealousy? Pepillo was about to ask, but before he could do so the older boy turned abruptly and walked away.
* * *
All the horses and sixty-three Spaniards had been injured in the day’s fighting, two of the foot soldiers so severely that they perished from their wounds. Cortés had their bodies buried in a deep hole with a mass of earth heaped over them to disguise the smell of rotting flesh.
That night he dreamed of Saint Peter again, and before dawn the following morning, Friday 3 September, he led a hundred infantry and five hundred Totonac auxiliaries out to lay waste the country, sacking and burning ten villages.
The largest of these, built at the top of a hill around a tall pyramid surmounted by a temple, had more than three thousand houses. There were no warriors but the priests and women put up a fierce resistance when they realised they were all to be killed. Cortés himself was attacked by a screaming mother who clawed his face as he picked up her infant by its feet to dash its brains out against a stone wall. After disembowelling her with his dagger, he finished off the child, just one of hundreds who died in the same fashion at the hands of his men, and ordered all the priests thrown down from the top of the pyramid.
It was harsh, bloody, thankless work, but it had to be done. He was only glad he had not brought Sandoval along this morning to judge him. The man was a fine soldier, but seemed unable to grasp the finer points of the war of conquest in which they were engaged.
Cortés arrived back at Tzompach in the early afternoon, just ahead of a large enemy force that was repelled without further Spanish losses after five hours of fighting. Finally, in the evening, he called Pepillo and dictated some passages of a new letter he was preparing for King Carlos. ‘I burnt ten villages,’ he reported of the day’s activities, ‘in one of which there were more than three thousand houses. The inhabitants resisted us strongly but, as we were carrying the flag of the Cross and were fighting for our Faith and in the service of your Sacred Majesty in this your Royal enterprise, God gave us such a victory that we killed many of them without ourselves suffering any harm.’
After dismissing Pepillo for the night, Cortés summoned the two Tlascalans he had selected as messengers. ‘Inform Shikotenka,’ he told them through Malinal, ‘that it is still our wish to treat the Tlascalans as brothers and we would never have harmed them if they themselves had not given us constant cause to do so. Inform Shikotenka that if he does not want to join us as our ally in our war against Moctezuma, and enjoy great glory and rich spoils, then we will not compel him. But in that case he must stand aside and not disturb us as we visit his capital and pass through his country on our way to Tenochtitlan. Tell him he must accept these terms, and accept them now, or we will kill all his people, leaving not a man, woman or child alive in the whole land of Tlascala.’
* * *
The messengers did not return, but the following afternoon, Saturday 4 September, fifty Tlascalans wearing robes woven from black feathers, accompanied by five elderly women and a long train of bearers carrying baskets, appeared at the foot of the hill of Tzompach. Malinal called down to them and asked them their business and they replied that they had brought greetings and gifts from Shikotenka.
On Cortés’s command, she told them to come up, and a few moments later they were admitted within the fortifications. ‘Who are the ones in black feathers?’ Cortés whispered.
‘Supposed to be priests,’ Malinal replied, ‘but too clean to be priests. More like spies trying to find where we weak. See how they looking around!’
It was true, Cortés thought. Their eyes darted and wheeled everywhere and many carried battle scars – surely not usual for priests. The leader of the delegation had at some point in his life been hit across the width of his face with an edged weapon, probably one of the native broadswords. He had a huge puckered scar running from cheek to cheek and a hideous prosthetic nose made from a mosaic of the green stone so favoured in these parts. Now he approached with the rest of the delegation, the old women and the train of bearers behind him, as Spanish soldiers armed with pikes, swords and battle-axes clustered round them and musketeers looked down from the temple tower.
‘Welcome,’ Cortés said through Malinal, who had now been joined by Pepillo. Cortés liked the way the pair worked together on the interpreting task, so as to give him translations in fluent Castilian. ‘Do you have a message for me from Shikotenka?’
‘Sir,’ answered the man with the false nose, ‘he sends these five slaves for you.’ He gestured to the miserable, cowering old women. ‘If you are fierce enough to eat flesh and blood, eat them and we shall bring you more. If you are a benevolent god,’ he pointed to three of the baskets, ‘here are incense and feathers for you. If you are men,’ the rest of the baskets, numbering more than a hundred, were indicated, ‘take these fowl and bread and cherries.’
War God: Return of the Plumed Serpent Page 44