Chapter XCIV
THE LAST RAVAGE BEFORE GRANADA.
The ravages of war had as yet spared a little portion of the Vega of
Granada. A green belt of gardens and orchards still flourished round
the city, extending along the banks of the Xenil and the Darro. They
had been the solace and delight of the inhabitants in their happier
days, and contributed to their sustenance in this time of scarcity.
Ferdinand determined to make a final and exterminating ravage to
the very walls of the city, so that there should not remain a single
green thing for the sustenance of man or beast. The eighth of July
was the day appointed for this act of desolation. Boabdil was
informed by his spies of the intention of the Christian king, and
prepared to make a desperate defence. Hernando de Baeza, a
Christian who resided with the royal family in the Alhambra as
interpreter, gives in a manuscript memoir an account of the
parting of Boabdil from his family as he went forth to battle. At an
early hour on the appointed day, the eighth of July, he bathed and
perfumed himself, as the Moors of high rank were accustomed to
do when they went forth to peril their lives. Arrayed in complete
armor, he took leave of his mother, his wife, and his sister in the
antechamber of the Tower of Comares. Ayxa la Horra, with her
usual dignity, bestowed on him her benediction and gave him her
hand to kiss. It was a harder parting with his son and his daughter,
who hung round him with sobs and tears: the duenas and doncellas
too of the royal household made the halls of the Alhambra resound
with their lamentations. He then mounted his horse and put himself
in front of his squadrons.*
*Hernando de Baeza, as cited by Alcantara, Hist. Gran., t. 4, c. 18.
The Christian army approached close to the city, and were laying
waste the gardens and orchards when Boabdil sallied forth,
surrounded by all that was left of the flower and chivalry of
Granada. There is one place where even the coward becomes
brave–that sacred spot called home. What, then, must have been
the valor of the Moors, a people always of chivalrous spirit, when the
war was thus brought to their thresholds! They fought among the
scenes of their loves and pleasures, the scenes of their infancy,
and the haunts of their domestic life. They fought under the eyes
of their wives and children, their old men and their maidens–of all
that was helpless and all that was dear to them; for all Granada,
crowded on tower and battlement, watched with trembling heart
the fate of this eventful day.
There was not so much one battle as a variety of battles: every
garden and orchard became a scene of deadly contest; every inch of
ground was disputed with an agony of grief and valor by the Moors;
every inch of ground that the Christians advanced they valiantly
maintained, but never did they advance with severer fighting or
greater loss of blood.
The cavalry of Muza was in every part of the field; wherever it came
it gave fresh ardor to the fight. The Moorish soldier, fainting with
heat, fatigue, and wounds, was roused to new life at the approach of
Muza; and even he who lay gasping in the agonies of death turned his
face toward him and faintly uttered cheers and blessings as he passed.
The Christians had by this time gained possession of various towers
near the city, whence they had been annoyed by crossbows and
arquebuses. The Moors, scattered in various actions, were severely
pressed. Boabdil, at the head of the cavaliers of his guard,
mingling in the fight in various parts of the field, endeavored to
inspirit the foot-soldiers to the combat. But the Moorish infantry
was never to be depended upon. In the heat of the action a panic
seized upon them; they fled, leaving their sovereign exposed with
his handful of cavaliers to an overwhelming force. Boabdil was on
the point of falling into the hands of the Christians, when, wheeling
round, he and his followers threw the reins on the necks of their
steeds and took refuge by dint of hoof within the walls of the city.*
*Zurita, lib. 20, c. 88.
Muza endeavored to retrieve the fortune of the field. He threw
himself before the retreating infantry, calling upon them to turn
and fight for their homes, their families, for everything sacred and
dear to them. All in vain: totally broken and dismayed, they fled
tumultuously for the gates. Muza would fain have kept the field
with his cavalry; but this devoted band, having stood the brunt of
war throughout this desperate campaign, was fearfully reduced in
numbers, and many of the survivors were crippled and enfeebled by
their wounds. Slowly and reluctantly, therefore, he retreated to the
city, his bosom swelling with indignation and despair. Entering the
gates, he ordered them to be closed and secured with bolts and
bars; for he refused to place any further confidence in the archers
and arquebusiers stationed to defend them, and vowed never
more to sally with foot-soldiers to the field.
In the mean time, the artillery thundered from the walls and checked
all further advance of the Christians. King Ferdinand therefore
called off his troops, and returned in triumph to his camp, leaving
the beautiful city of Granada wrapped in the smoke of her fields and
gardens and surrounded by the bodies of her slaughtered children.
Such was the last sally of the Moors in defence of their favorite
city. The French ambassador, who witnessed it, was filled with
wonder at the prowess, the dexterity, and the daring of the
Moslems.
In truth, this whole war was an instance, memorable in history,
of the most persevering resolution. For nearly ten years had the
war endured–an almost uninterrupted series of disasters to the
Moorish arms. Their towns had been taken, one after another, and
their brethren slain or led into captivity. Yet they disputed every
city and town and fortress and castle, nay, every rock itself, as if
they had been inspirited by victories. Wherever they could plant
foot to fight, or find wall or cliff whence to launch an arrow, they
disputed their beloved country; and now, when their capital was
cut off from all relief and a whole nation thundered at its gates,
they still maintained defence, as if they hoped some miracle to
interpose in their behalf. Their obstinate resistance (says an
ancient chronicler) shows the grief with which they yielded up
the Vega, which was to them a paradise and heaven. Exerting all
the strength of their arms, they embraced, as it were, that most
beloved soil, from which neither wounds nor defeats, nor death
itself, could part them. They stood firm, battling for it with the
united force of love and grief, never drawing back the foot while
they had hands to fight or fortune to befriend them.*
*Abarca, Reyes de Aragon, R. 30, c. 3.
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