Of much greater concern was the huge cloud of dust that had begun to form much further south while Cortés had been watching Alvarado and Davila’s progress. He couldn’t see details because the range of little hills blocked his view, but he estimated that the cloud’s leading edge was presently about five miles from Potonchan and that it stretched back at least a mile from there, almost as far as Cintla. It could only be the product of a great army on the move, an army tens of thousands strong, advancing to make war on him.
The good news, after a morning’s light exercise, was that the horses were frisky and full of grass, all the stiffness gone from their limbs. Cortés had already sent orders for them to be barded for battle. He turned to the artilleryman, Francisco de Mesa, who stood at his side. ‘If we bring the lombards up here,’ he said, indicating the wide platform at the top of the pyramid, ‘what will their range be?’
Mesa’s eyes widened. ‘Up here, Don Hernán?’
‘Yes, you heard me, up here. Put those sixty slaves to work!’
Mesa raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, I suppose it can be done.’ He looked speculatively at the advancing dust cloud. ‘And from this altitude, with the barrels at maximum elevation, I judge we’ll be able to put ball into the midst of enemy formations anywhere up to two miles from the town.’
Cortés whistled. ‘Two miles, eh? Couldn’t ask for better! Well, get on with it then, Mesa, and at the double. We’re very short of time.’
Cortés had already decided who would ride with the cavalry today, and they were not in every case the men who owned the horses. For example Ortiz, nicknamed ‘the musician’ and Bartolomé García both owned fine destriers that were presently exercising in the orchard, but both men were poor riders; their mounts would go to Miguel de Lares, whom Cortés knew to be a superb horseman, and to Gonzalo de Sandoval, whose story of a lifetime in the saddle before his family fell on hard times rang true. Likewise, Diego de Ordaz owned a fast grey mare, but it would be ridden today by Pedro Gonzalez de Trujillo – not, in this case, because of any lack of horsemanship skills on the part of Ordaz, but because Ordaz, despite his Velazquista sympathies, was undoubtedly the best officer to take command of the infantry in the coming engagement while Cortés himself led the cavalry. Ordaz’s field experience in the Italian wars was second to none and he was, in addition, an excellent swordsman. Besides, Cortés hoped, giving him this important role, which he had accepted with pleased surprise this morning, might help to detach his loyalties from the pro-Velázquez clique.
As he reached the foot of the pyramid Cortés had Ordaz put out an urgent summons for an immediate muster of all the men and, while he waited for them to fall in, and for Alvarado and Davila to arrive, he gathered the rest of his selected corps of cavalry around him – Cristóbal de Olid, Alonso Hernández Puertocarrero, Juan de Escalante, Francisco de Montejo, Juan Velázquez de León, Francisco de Morla, Miguel de Lares, Gonzalo Dominguez, Pedro de Moran, Pedro Gonzalez de Trujillo, Juan Sedeno, Jerónimo Alanis, Pedro de la Mafla, Juan Rodriguez de Salas and young Gonzalo de Sandoval. Moments later Alvarado and Davila, both excellent horsemen, joined the group, while the two hundred men they had led in this morning’s skirmishes, and the hundred from the relief column that Cortés had sent out to support them, milled in the square. Alvarado and Davila’s men were evidently grateful to be out of danger, even if only temporarily, attending to their injuries, eating and drinking from their packs and telling the rest of the gathering force what had happened to them.
Cortés now climbed eight steps up the stairway of the pyramid, where Mesa was already organising his Taino slaves to carry the first of the two great cannon to the top, and called to the men for silence, which fell instantly, without complaint. Even the Velazquistas, it seemed, were willing to hold their tongues at this grave moment.
‘I’ll make this brief,’ said Cortés. ‘As some of you who’ve been up the pyramid in the last half-hour already know, a huge force of Indians is heading our way. I’ll not put any gloss on this – I’d say we’re facing thirty thousand men.’
At the figure of thirty thousand, which Cortés knew in his heart to be an underestimate, a gasp of alarm passed around the square. ‘But this is not like facing thirty thousand battle-seasoned Moors on the plains of Granada,’ he continued, waving the men to silence again, ‘or thirty thousand of any European army. These are thirty thousand savages, armed with stone weapons and with no concept of the science of warfare. In addition to our discipline and esprit de corps, which they lack, we have three outstanding advantages that we will turn against them. First, our cannon.’ He pointed to the huge barrel of the lombard in its cradle of ropes, supported by a team of thirty slaves, now halfway up the steep steps of the pyramid. ‘Second, our hounds’ – a gesture to Vendabal and his assistants who were busily cinching the armour to the snarling dogs. ‘And third, and I believe the factor more than any other that will tip the balance in our favour, our cavalry.’ He waved at the group of horsemen gathered at the base of the steps.
Turning back to the infantry, Cortés paused, saying nothing, for ten … twenty … thirty seconds. It was a technique of oratory he had long ago mastered, the effect of which was to cause all the men to lean slightly towards him, anxious to learn what was coming next. ‘I know,’ he said at last and in a deeply sympathetic tone, ‘that some of you brave fellows have fought hard already this morning, risked your lives, taken wounds, and I know I ask much to expect you to go out into the field, surrounded by overwhelming numbers of the foe, and do it all again this afternoon. Nonetheless, this is what I ask of you! For if we do not all fight for our very lives today, with every bit of our strength, then we will perish here.’ Another pause: ‘But we will fight, and we will not perish!’
A great cheer arose from the men.
‘We will fight and we will not perish because we are courageous men, heroes all, and because God and His saints and all His angels fight on our side this day!’
There came another cheer, more rousing than the last, and Cortés saw how many of the men’s eyes gleamed with emotion as they fixed their gaze on him, relied on him, counted utterly on him as their leader who would bring them salvation, and – God willing – victory.
‘So here is what we will do,’ he said. ‘Our enemies approach us from the south at a fast march. They will be upon us in a little more than an hour but we will have a trap prepared for them. The infantry will be the bait of this trap and the artillery and cavalry will form its two jaws.’
He beckoned to the stocky, bearded figure of Diego de Ordaz who was standing nearby in a chain-mail tunic, his broadsword hanging from a baldric and a grim look on his face. Ordaz nodded and climbed the steps to stand beside him. ‘I will lead the cavalry today,’ Cortés continued, ‘and Don Diego here will lead the infantry. You will march out at once, pausing only to gather all necessary supplies of powder, ammunition and water, and you will challenge the enemy by blocking their way one mile south of the town. Eight of the falconets will remain here in a battery to kill any of the foe who may slip past you, but the other ten will go with you, and all the dogs, and there you will stand and there you will fight while the Indians fall upon you in their thousands.’
Cortés paused again. Close to five hundred strained, dirt-streaked, in many cases blood-smeared faces leaned towards him. ‘While you hold and engage the enemy, Francisco de Mesa, our artilleryman –’ he pointed to Mesa who was overseeing the progress of the second lombard on its way up the pyramid – ‘will be preparing a bombardment the like of which these Indians cannot possibly conceive. Yonder lombards fire seventy-pound balls a distance of two miles, and when Mesa sees that the enemy are closing in on you he will begin firing over your heads and into the depths of their ranks, spreading terror and panic amongst them. Many will seek to flee to the south, back towards Cintla where they have come from, but at this point they will find our cavalry behind them – for we will have gone out by the east side of town and worked our way south from there following
the same track that Davila and Alvarado took yesterday – and we will hit them at a full charge and destroy them utterly.’
As he dismissed the men to a resounding chorus of cheers, Cortés wished he felt as confident as he had sounded, and wished he could persuade himself of the merits of his simple plan as successfully as he seemed to have persuaded everyone else.
For the truth he knew at the bottom of his heart was that this plan of his had been hastily stitched together and was as full of holes as a threadbare sock. There were at least a dozen ways in which it could rapidly unravel, leaving his men and his cannon horribly vulnerable to being flanked and overwhelmed, and his precious cavalry cut off from all support amidst numberless foes.
Offering up a silent prayer to Saint Peter, who had so often promised him victory in dreams, Cortés turned with a smile to his cavalrymen. ‘Brothers,’ he said, ‘ours will be the first charge of horse ever witnessed in these new lands. Today we make history.’
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Thursday 25 March 1519
Cortés feared the lombards on the pyramid would be vulnerable to a sneak flanking attack by the Indians after the infantry had marched out of Potonchan and taken up its position as the ‘bait’ in his trap. Yet if the enemy were to be drawn into a fight that would last long enough to expose them to the ‘jaws’ of the trap (his cavalry to their south, Mesa’s lombards to their north), he couldn’t afford to reduce the strength of the infantry squares.
The Taino slaves who moved the big cannon could not be relied upon – indeed they would be more of an impediment than an asset – so there was no point in looking to them to help solve the problem. But more than fifty of Davila’s men had been injured in the morning’s heavy skirmishing and Cortés now had Mesa choose the forty who were most badly hurt, the ones who’d be the least use to Ordaz on the plain, to garrison the pyramid. He also put eight falconets under Mesa’s command and told him to use them either to support Ordaz or for the defence of the lombards as the need arose.
‘Does he need eight falconets?’ growled Ordaz. ‘When the fight gets hot we’ll wish we had them with us.’
‘Nothing’s more important than protecting the lombards today,’ Cortés insisted. ‘Without them our trap will fail. Besides, you’ll have ten falconets with you, a good number, and the eight with Mesa can be turned on any enemy units that get between you and the town. I think in the end you’ll be glad of them here.’
Ordaz made a sour face but nodded his agreement.
‘I have a question,’ said Mesa. ‘How long do I continue the barrage with the lombards? I don’t want to hit your cavalry, Don Hernán.’
Cortés laughed. ‘Believe me, Mesa, I don’t want you to hit us either!’ His expression became suddenly grim. ‘Do the maximum harm you can to the enemy. Stop when you see us amongst them and not a moment before.’
He turned back to his cavaliers who were waiting nearby. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Shall we to horse?’
Watching the eighteen cavaliers dress in their armour, strap on their swords and remove the scabbards from the warheads of their lances was, for Pepillo, like witnessing the romance of Amadis de Gaula come to life. Here was chivalry! Here was adventure! Here were heroes! He might easily imagine that Cortés was Amadis himself, the Knight of the Green Sword, on his way to kill the giant Endriago whose monstrous body was covered with scales – that courteous, gentle, sensitive but invincible Amadis, who emerged victorious from every battle, drenched in his enemies’ blood.
Cortés was already wearing a steel cuirass but, with Melchior’s help, he unbuckled and removed its breast and back plates, donned a hauberk – a shirt of chain mail that fell to his thighs – reaffixed the cuirass over it and belted on his sword. Although the hauberk had mailed sleeves, additional items of steel plate were now added – pauldrons to protect his shoulders and armpits, rerebraces to protect his upper arms, articulated metal joints called couters to protect his elbows, forearm guards called vambraces, and gauntlets made of a cunning combination of plate, mail and leather to protect his hands. Next Melchior turned to the caudillo’s legs, attaching cuisses, articulated poleyns and greaves to protect his thighs, knees and shins, and strapping mailed sabatons over the toes of his boots. Finally he fixed a gorget of multiple articulated steel plates around his master’s throat and handed him his gleaming open-faced helmet, called a sallet, with armoured flaps at the side and back to protect his neck.
While all this was done Cortés, who was in high good humour, laughed and joked with the other knights, pausing from time to time to explain the names and functions of the different pieces of armour to Pepillo, who felt his eyes must be as big as saucers as he looked on. Then, mounting Molinero, the caudillo placed his sallet on his head, reached down to take the twelve-foot lance that Melchior now passed up to him and leaned it jauntily over his right shoulder. All around the other knights were doing the same.
Cortés was looking at the boys. ‘We’ll win the fight today,’ he said, ‘but there’s a risk the enemy may try to infiltrate the town before it’s over. If that happens I don’t want the two of you ending up in their cooking pots!’ He laughed, but Pepillo could see that at some level he was serious. ‘So get yourselves over to the pyramid,’ he continued. ‘Make yourselves useful to Mesa and see if he can’t find you a weapon or two to defend yourselves with.’
‘I have my knife sir,’ said Melchior.
Cortés nodded. ‘Keep it handy, but get Mesa to arm you with a spear.’
He turned to Pepillo: ‘How about you, boy?’
‘I’m not armed, sir.’
‘Then take this.’ Cortés reached into the top of his boot and pulled out a small, wicked-looking dagger.
‘Won’t you need it, sir?’
‘I carry a second,’ said Cortés, patting his other boot. He passed the knife to Pepillo. ‘Use it on yourself if you have to.’ With a raised finger he mimed the motion of a man cutting his own throat. ‘Believe me, it will be better than letting the Indians capture you.’
Pepillo gulped. ‘On myself, sir?’
‘Yes, if you have to.’ A confident chuckle: ‘But you won’t have to! We’ll win today, you’ll see. I want you to observe everything that happens – the top of the pyramid will be a good place for that – and tonight you’ll help me write to the king.’
The rest of the squadron had already formed up two by two behind him, their armour glittering in the sun. Cortés waited for Alvarado to fall in at his side, raised his left hand above his head, signalled ‘forward’ and nudged Molinero into a trot.
Holding the little knife, testing its keen edge, Pepillo stood dumbfounded at the thought of taking his own life with it as he watched the riders file out through the gate of the orchard and clatter across the square. They increased their pace to a gallop, scattering dust, and turned onto the main avenue leading east out of Potonchan.
Ah Kinchil and Cuetzpalli had decided to watch the battle from the Xaman Hills, really nothing more than a fold or a wrinkle in the plains. The tallest peak in the little range was barely a hundred feet high, but offered an excellent vantage point across the maize fields that stretched three miles north from here to the outskirts of Potonchan. There was a copse of ancient ahuehuetl trees on the summit to provide shade, and even a little bubbling spring. All in all it could hardly have been more idyllic.
‘We will devour them,’ said Ah Kinchil, echoing Muluc’s comment of the night before.
‘I don’t doubt it,’ Cuetzpalli replied. Having been carried up here by their sweating litter-bearers, the two men were now standing side by side at the edge of the copse with their retainers gathered nearby and Malinal placed between them to translate their every word. Ah Kinchil had detached two hundred warriors from the rearguard of the immense army Muluc was leading into battle, posting them around the base of the hill and keeping his personal bodyguard on sentry duty amongst the trees. Muluc’s steward Ichick was present – primarily, Malinal suspected, to keep a close eye o
n her and make sure she had no opportunity to escape before being sold to Cuetzpalli tomorrow and sent on her way back to Tenochtitlan. All twelve of Cuetzpalli’s Cuahchics were in attendance, along with a scribe and an artist whom he had instructed to keep a record of the main events of the battle.
Malinal was unable to imagine any way in which the situation could fail to be utterly hopeless for the white men – unless they really were gods. Their entire army, which they had divided into four small square formations of a hundred men each in ten tightly bunched ranks, had marched one mile south of Potonchan and taken up position between the town and Muluc’s advancing army. Each of the squares looked to be about thirty feet wide and thirty deep and even though they were divided one from the other by horizontal gaps of approximately twice that width, their entire combined front still stretched no more than three hundred feet across the fields. Moreover Malinal realised that the little squares were not even deployed in a single formidable row, but in two pairs, with the second pair some distance behind the first and offset diagonally, creating a front that was staggered rather than straight. Why, she wondered, would the Spaniards have adopted such a vulnerable formation? Surely being divided like this into four tiny, isolated units would only make it easier for Muluc’s men, who formed a block two thousand feet wide and a thousand deep, to surround and ‘devour’ each one? Indeed each of the eighty Mayan ranks contained five hundred men, thus alone outnumbering the entire Spanish force!
It was almost as though the white men were offering themselves for sacrifice!
Out of the corner of her eye, Malinal noticed Cuetzpalli’s artist rapidly sketching the scene. Here they were on the Xaman hills with Muluc’s army a mile and a half to their north, marching rapidly across the open fields and already manoeuvring into a vast convex formation to flank and engulf the Spaniards. Approximately half a mile of empty fields came next and then – appearing even smaller in the painting than they did in real life – the four squares of the unlucky Spaniards.
War God: Nights of the Witch Page 53
