The Fall of Maubila Hearken the stirring story
The soldier has to tell,
Of fierce and bloody battle,
Contested long and well,
Ere walled Maubila, stoutly held,
Before our forces fell.
Now many years have circled
Since that October day,
When proudly to Maubila
De Soto took his way,
With men-at-arms and cavaliers
In terrible array.
Oh, never sight more goodly
In any land was seen;
And never better soldiers
Than those he led have been,
More prompt to handle arquebus,
Or wield their sabres keen.
The sun was at meridian,
His hottest rays fell down
Alike on soldier’s corselet
And on the friar’s gown;
The breeze was hushed as on we rode
Right proudly to the town.
First came the bold De Soto,
In all his manly pride,
The gallant Don Diego,
His nephew, by his side;
A yard behind Juan Ortiz rode,
Interpreter and guide.
Baltasar de Gallegos,
Impetuous, fierce, and hot;
Francisco de Figarro,
Since by an arrow shot;
And slender Juan de Guzman, who
In battle faltered not.
Luis Bravo de Xeres,
That gallant cavalier;
Alonzo de Cormono,
Whose spirit knew no fear;
The Marquis of Astorga, and
Vasquez, the cannoneer.
Andres de Vasconcellos,
Juan Coles, young and fair,
Roma de Cardenoso,
Him of the yellow hair—
Rode gallant in their bravery,
Straight to the public square.
And there, in sombre garments,
Were monks of Cuba four,
Fray Juan de Gallegos,
And other priests a score,
Who sacramental bread and wine
And holy relics bore.
And next eight hundred soldiers
In closest order come,
Some with Biscayan lances,
With arquebuses some,
Timing their tread to martial notes
Of trump and fife and drum.
Loud sang the gay Mobilians,
Light danced their daughters brown;
Sweet sounded pleasant music
Through all the swarming town;
But ’mid the joy one sullen brow
Was lowering with a frown.
The haughty Tuscaloosa,
The sovereign of the land,
With moody face, and thoughtful,
Rode at our chief’s right hand,
And cast from time to time a glance
Of hatred at the band.
And when that gay procession
Made halt to take a rest,
And eagerly the people
To see the strangers prest,
The frowning King, in wrathful tones,
De Soto thus addressed:
“To bonds and to dishonor
By faithless friends trepanned,
For days beside you, Spaniard,
The ruler of the land
Has ridden as a prisoner,
Subject to your command.
“He was not born the fetters
Of baser men to wear,
And tells you this, De Soto,
Hard though it be to bear—
Let those beware the panther’s rage
Who follow to his lair.
“Back to your isle of Cuba!
Slink to your den again,
And tell your robber sovereign,
The mighty lord of Spain,
Whoso would strive this land to win
Shall find his efforts vain.
“And, save it be your purpose
Within my realm to die,
Let not your forces linger
Our deadly anger nigh,
Lest food for vultures and for wolves
Your mangled forms should lie.”
Then, spurning courtly offers,
He left our chieftain’s side,
And crossing the enclosure
With quick and lengthened stride,
He passed within his palace gates,
And there our wrath defied.
Now came up Charamilla,
Who led our troop of spies,
And said unto our captain,
With tones that showed surprise,
“A mighty force within the town,
In wait to crush us, lies.
“The babes and elder women
Were sent at break of day
Into the forest yonder,
Five leagues or more away;
While in yon huts ten thousand men
Wait eager for the fray.”
“What say ye now, my comrades?”
De Soto asked his men;
“Shall we, before these traitors,
Go backward, baffled, then;
Or, sword in hand, attack the foe
Who crouches in his den?”
Before their loud responses
Had died upon the ear,
A savage stood before them,
Who said, in accents clear,
“Ho! robbers base and coward thieves!
Assassin Spaniards, hear!
“No longer shall our sovereign,
Born noble, great, and free,
Be led beside your master,
A shameful sight to see,
While weapons here to strike you down,
Or hands to grasp them be.”
As spoke the brawny savage
Full wroth our comrades grew—
Baltasar de Gallegos
His heavy weapon drew,
And dealt the boaster such a stroke
As clave his body through.
Then rushed the swart Mobilians
Like hornets from their nest;
Against our bristling lances
Was bared each savage breast;
With arrow-head and club and stone,
Upon our band they prest.
“Retreat in steady order!
But slay them as ye go!”
Exclaimed the brave De Soto,
And with each word a blow
That sent a savage soul to doom
He dealt upon the foe.
“Strike well who would our honor
From spot or tarnish save!
Strike down the haughty Pagan,
The infidel and slave!
Saint Mary Mother sits above,
And smiles upon the brave.
“Strike! all my gallant comrades!
Strike! gentlemen of Spain!
Upon the traitor wretches
Your deadly anger rain,
Or never to your native land
Return in pride again!”
Then hosts of angry foemen
We fiercely held at bay,
Through living walls of Pagans
We cut our bloody way;
And though by thousands round they swarmed,
We kept our firm array.
At length they feared to follow;
We stood upon the plain,
And dressed our shattered columns;
When, slacking bridle rein,
De Soto, wounded as he was,
Led to the charge again.
For now our gallant horsemen
Their steeds again had found,
That had been fastly tethered
Unto the trees around,
Though some of these, by arrows slain,
Lay stretched upon the ground.
And as the riders mounted,
The foe, in joyous tones,
Gave vent to shouts of triumph,
And hurled a shower of stones;
But soon the shouts were changed to wails,
The cries of joy to moans.
Down on the scared Mobilians
The furious rush was led;
Down fell the howling victims
Beneath the horses’ tread;
The angered chargers trod alike
On dying and on dead.
Back to the wooden ramparts,
With cut and thrust and blow,
We drove the panting savage,
The very walls below,
Till those above upon our heads
Huge rocks began to throw.
Whenever we retreated
The swarming foemen came—
Their wild and matchless courage
Put even ours to shame—
Rushing upon our lances’ points,
And arquebuses’ flame.
Three weary hours we fought them,
And often each gave way;
Three weary hours, uncertain
The fortune of the day;
And ever where they fiercest fought
De Soto led the fray.
Baltasar de Gallegos
Right well displayed his might;
His sword fell ever fatal,
Death rode its flash of light;
And where his horse’s head was turned
The foe gave way in fright.
At length before our daring
The Pagans had to yield,
And in their stout enclosure
They sought to find a shield,
And left us, wearied with our toil,
The masters of the field.
Now worn and spent and weary,
Our force was scattered round,
Some seeking for their comrades,
Some seated on the ground,
When sudden fell upon our ears
A single trumpet’s sound.
“Up! ready make for storming!”
That speaks Moscoso near;
He comes with stainless sabre,
He comes with spotless spear;
But stains of blood and spots of gore
Await his weapons here.
Soon, formed in four divisions,
Around the order goes—
“To front with battle-axes!
No moment for repose.
At signal of an arquebus,
Rain on the gates your blows.”
Not long that fearful crashing,
The gates in splinters fall;
And some, though sorely wounded,
Climb o’er the crowded wall;
No rampart’s height can keep them back,
No danger can appall.
Then redly rained the carnage—
None asked for quarter there;
Men fought with all the fury
Born of a wild despair;
And shrieks and groans and yells of hate
Were mingled in the air.
Four times they backward beat us,
Four times our force returned;
We quenched in bloody torrents
The fire that in us burned;
We slew who fought, and those who knelt
With stroke of sword we spurned.
And what are these new forces,
With long, black, streaming hair?
They are the singing maidens
Who met us in the square;
And now they spring upon our ranks
Like she-wolves from their lair.
Their sex no shield to save them,
Their youth no weapon stayed;
De Soto with his falchion
A lane amid them made,
And in the skulls of blooming girls
Sank battle-axe and blade.
Forth came a wingèd arrow,
And struck our leader’s thigh;
The man who sent it shouted,
And looked to see him die;
The wound but made the tide of rage
Run twice as fierce and high.
Then cried our stout camp-master,
“The night is coming down;
Already twilight darkness
Is casting shadows brown;
We would not lack for light on strife
If once we burned the town.”
With that we fired the houses;
The ranks before us broke;
The fugitives we followed,
And dealt them many a stroke,
While round us rose the crackling flame,
And o’er us hung the smoke.
And what with flames around them,
And what with smoke o’erhead,
And what with cuts of sabre,
And what with horses’ tread,
And what with lance and arquebus,
The town was filled with dead.
Six thousand of the foemen
Upon that day were slain,
Including those who fought us
Outside upon the plain—
Six thousand of the foemen fell,
And eighty-two of Spain.
Not one of us unwounded
Came from the fearful fray;
And when the fight was over,
And scattered round we lay,
Some sixteen hundred wounds we bore
As tokens of the day.
And through that weary darkness,
And all that dreary night,
We lay in bitter anguish,
But never mourned our plight,
Although we watched with eagerness
To see the morning light.
And when the early dawning
Had marked the sky with red,
We saw the Moloch incense
Rise slowly overhead
From smoking ruins and the heaps
Of charred and mangled dead.
I knew the slain were Pagans,
While we in Christ were free,
And yet it seemed that moment
A spirit said to me:
“Henceforth be doomed while life remains
This sight of fear to see.”
And ever since that dawning
Which chased the night away,
I wake to see the corses
That thus before me lay;
And this is why in cloistered cell
I wait my latter day. |
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