The Moor's Account (46 page)

The horsemen seemed unsure what they were supposed to do with this announcement. They climbed down from their horses and in their dusty clothes approached the governor. Are you taking them from us? the older one asked in a voice that was barely audible.

Coronado looked beyond the men at the horizon. The midday sun was melting the road, the boulders, and the trees into one hazy, indistinguishable mass of brown, yellow, and green. You must remain in your town and build up your settlements, he said. If you remain in your town, I will see to it that you get some help. Then he shook his head, in the weary manner of a man already resigned to the vicissitudes of running an imperial province. Go, he said. Go, before I change my mind.

Before the day was over we encountered another group. Coronado did not give the order to stop this time, and the horsemen moved their slaves to the side of the road so that our procession could pass. For the governor these encounters were already a nuisance, but for me they were a frightful reminder of what I was trying to escape.

I
N
G
UADALAJARA
, we were greeted by a terrible thunderstorm. Rain pooled on the only road in the town, turning it into a giant puddle of mud, and the somber clouds that hung in the sky showed no sign of clearing. White flashes intermittently lit our quarters, making the darkness that followed even bleaker. At times, it seemed as if we were stationed in the middle of a dark swamp. To add to my worries, the air in Guadalajara did not seem to agree with Oyomasot; she suffered from constant nausea, which was particularly pronounced in the morning.

Could it be that you are pregnant? I asked her.

The light from the window was on her hair, bringing out shades of red. She turned from the bowl where she had been washing her face and gave me a look of surprise. So accustomed had she become to childlessness that the possibility of a pregnancy had not crossed her mind. It stunned me that the baby we had wanted for so long had chosen this delicate moment in our lives to announce its presence. I put my arms around her and found her trembling. A baby, she whispered.

At last a good omen, I replied. But I resisted saying what I feared—that the risk we were taking was so much greater now. The empire's men were all around us. We could never hope to defeat them with force. We had to use other means.

The weather was not the only reason for our tarry in the town; as the new governor of Nueva Galicia, Coronado had to attend to the complaints of the people of Guadalajara. Of which there were many: the Indians, the settlers said, were either dying of the pox and the measles, or they
had run away to join the rebellion of a cacique named Ayapín. The fields remained untilled for lack of labor. Ayapín was torching homes and crops, the settlers said, making it impossible for good, decent people like them to have a single day of peace. And there was no school in the town, so that many of the wives wanted to go back to a more civilized place, closer to Tenochtitlán.

Coronado promised to change all this. There would be no more slavery in the province, he said. The Indians would soon return to work, more lands would be given to the settlers, money would be spent to build the town of Guadalajara. And, of course, this Ayapín character would be captured and dealt with appropriately.

Know this, he said to the alcalde on the day of our departure. The era of people like Guzmán is over. There is a better way to run the empire.

It was a speech Coronado had prepared in the capital and it seemed to me that the more he told it, the more he believed in it: that the empire brought order where there was chaos, faith where there was idolatry, peace where there was savagery, and since its benefits were so indisputably clear, it could be spread through peaceful means. I waited for him to finish telling his tall tales so that we could leave, and go north.

C
OMPOSTELA WAS IN DISARRAY
. Nearly half the houses that had been standing when I was last in the city looked abandoned now. There were few people walking about on the streets and, I noticed, the bathhouse where my hair had been shorn was boarded up. I left Coronado at the governor's mansion and took his deputies and the two friars to the barracks. There, I found the flagpole bare, the gate unguarded, the sentry box empty. I was well inside the courtyard before the sentinels took any notice of me: they were sitting under the shade of the arcade, playing a game of cards with an Indian man. It was Satosol.

The guards rushed to greet the new governor and apologize for their careless protection of military quarters. There were no Indians around here anymore, they explained, and most of the settlers preferred to stay on their plantations rather than in town. Fumbling with their keys, they unlocked the doors to the rooms and let in the governor and the friars. But I stayed behind with Satosol under the arcade. He wore a white shirt, which looked tight over the paunch he had grown since I had last seen him. His eyes flickered with a fierce curiosity. Are the others with you? he asked.

No.

They stayed in the big city?

Cabeza de Vaca went back to his country. Dorantes and Castillo married women of their kind. They have estates now, not far from Tenochtitlán.

Did my sister come back with you?

No, she is still with Dorantes. She had a baby.

Boy?

Girl.

What about my cousin? (He meant Kewaan, the wife of Castillo.)

She stayed behind, too. But what are you doing in the barracks? I asked him. Guzmán had been arrested only a few weeks after our passage through his town, so I knew that the reconnaissance mission for which he had hired Satosol had not taken place.

I still have the room, Satosol said. He pointed upstairs. And look, he said. He pulled out a knife and, by way of demonstrating its sharpness, he pricked his thumb with it. Instantly a bead of blood appeared; he licked it.

But what do you do here? I asked.

Same as you, brother. Whatever needs to be done.

We are not the same. Brother.

Then what are you doing with these new white men?

You ask too many questions.

I had never been close with Satosol, but for the three weeks I stayed in Compostela he shadowed me, asking me where I was going and what I was doing. If I sold my frilly shirt in order to buy paper and ink, he asked me why I had gotten rid of such fine cloth. If I sat down to write by the light of a candle, he asked me when I had become a notetaker like the white men. If I spoke to one of my companions in a hushed voice, he asked me what I was plotting. If I looked for wild garlic in the fields around the town, he asked me if my wife was pregnant. The more guarded my answers were, the more insistent he became, so that I spent much of my time avoiding him altogether.

The reason for our long stay in Compostela was that Coronado was interviewing the settlers to find out why they had abandoned their homes. The town was too far from their estates, they complained, where they needed to remain if they wanted to keep a close eye on their laborers. In addition, the Indians who were slaves were too lazy to work, while those who were free did not pay the tribute imposed on them by law. So Coronado
gave orders to build new barracks closer to the estates, awarded more lands to the settlers, told them they needed to treat the Indians better, and said he would return in a few weeks to ensure that his orders had been carried out.

T
HE FIRST THING
I noticed when we arrived in Culiacán was that Melchor Díaz's mustache had become even more elaborate. It reached all the way to his earlobes, its ends maintained in place by means of some mysterious grease. He was standing in the middle of the dusty road, flanked by two of his men, their muskets pointing in opposite directions. To the left, the horse run was empty. To the right, the Indian settlement looked deserted. It was as if all the Indians that had been in Culiacán—both its natives and the captives my companions and I had brought with us—had disappeared. But the garrison looked immutable; it was squat, well guarded, and teeming with Díaz's men. Before he had even dismounted, Coronado asked Díaz why he had not yet captured the rebel Ayapín.

Because someone else will replace him, Díaz said. Someone who might be even worse than him, which I know sounds hardly possible. But believe me, Don Francisco, this rebellion will continue as long as the conditions of the Indians remain the same. Nuño de Guzmán told me …

The era of Guzmán is over.

Yes, Díaz said. I was not his most fervent supporter, I assure you.

Peaceful conquest is the new way.

Yes, yes. I myself have been saying this for some time, as I hope Cabeza de Vaca has reported to the viceroy. But I will find Ayapín for you.

I hope so, Coronado said. Otherwise I might have to make some changes.

The blunt threat made Díaz frown. He seemed offended that a man of his age and long experience in the frontier should be spoken to in this way. But he dared not say anything in return and only watched while Coronado handed his reins to a servant and walked into the barracks.

The viceroy's plan called for Coronado to stay in Culiacán for a few weeks, while the friars, the Amigos, and I went on an advance mission to the north. Our task was to bring back a detailed report of the land, including information about its trails, water sources, towns, tribes, and the alliances between them. In short, we were to find out everything we could to facilitate the governor's entrada.

While waiting for the Amigos to prepare supplies for our journey, I took long walks around the outpost with my greyhounds. I had traded or given away all of my Castilian clothes by then and wore a leather coat over a cotton tunic, of the kind made by the tribes that dwelled in Nueva Galicia. Oyomasot, too, had discarded the dresses she had found constricting, especially in her new condition. I noticed that she smiled more easily; she even composed a rhyme when I prepared an infusion of zaatar for one of the Amigos. It seemed as if my wife, and my life, were slowly being returned to me.

When the day of our departure arrived, Coronado came to the gates of the garrison to bid us good-bye. He reminded Father Marco and Father Onorato that they were to take careful notice of everything they saw and that they should not hesitate to send back regular messages with one of the Amigos. For me he reserved a less humble tone. Estebanico, he said, you have been given an important mission, and I trust you will execute it faithfully.

I am ready.

If you find the Seven Cities, you will be treated well and receive many rewards. But if you betray your orders in any way, it is as if you have disobeyed His Majesty himself, and I will find you and punish you in ways you cannot even imagine.

I am ready, I said again.

He put his right hand on my shoulder. Then go with God.

W
E ARRIVED
at the base of the mountains at the worst time. It was windy and cold and we had to trudge through slippery trails. Behind me, the two friars pulled their mules by the reins, but the animals were slow and reluctant. Then the Amigo porters followed, balancing their baskets on their heads; it was a miracle that none of them fell and killed himself. But my wife's spirits were high, though she refused to take the hand I offered her. I can manage, she said, I can do this. She was just as eager as I to reach the other side.

Only when we reached the Land of Corn did we begin to slow our pace. The trail brought back many happy memories of our time here. One morning, about a week into our march, we came across a macaw-feather trader who recognized Oyomasot and me—he had been selling his wares to the Jumanos during our visit with them. From him, we learned that over the last two years the Indians in this area had been sick with fevers
that brought on red spots and vicious welts. Hundreds had died. He was on his way to the settlement of Petatlán, farther north, where he hoped to find a reputable medicine man. So he joined our party as we headed there.

We arrived in Petatlán at midday four days later. It was a beautiful town of about fifty or sixty dwellings, all of them built with mud bricks. Brown and yellow mats hung from the walls, exposed to the sun. At night, they would be pulled down and used as bedrolls. Beyond the houses lay the fields of corn and beans, where workers still labored, tiny figures bent among their crops. In spite of the large number of people in our party, the town elders offered us food and shelter for the night.

While the friars took a nap in their quarters, Oyomasot and I visited the tribe's elders. Of course, we had no cure for the pox that afflicted their people, but we listened to the stories they told us and we shared our own. We described what we had seen in Tenochtitlán, the temples the Castilians had destroyed to erect their own, the slaves with branded faces, and the mission that Coronado was heading. But later that night, when we returned to the lodge where we were staying, we found the two friars waiting for us.

Oyomasot walked past me into the house and left me standing by the door with them, under the light of the moon. Father Marco, the older one, was very tall and had bulbous eyes that seemed to take notice of everything: my clothes, my satchel, even the gourd I carried, which had been given to me as a gift by one of the town elders. The friar spoke Spanish with an accent that hinted of his birth in France. Estebanico, he asked, how far are we from the wealthy settlements Cabeza de Vaca spoke of?

This is one of them, I replied.

Petatlán is one of them? But it does not look the way it should.

How should it look?

It seems much poorer than I expected.

Compared with the camps we lived in for so long, this town is much richer.

Well, I suppose it is all a matter of perspective. Still …

Father Marco's gaze drifted away. Coronado had instructed him to send detailed letters from every town we reached and to take note, especially, of any precious ornaments, decorative items, or trading materials
that could suggest proximity to the Seven Cities of Gold; he was probably working out what he would write in his next letter to the governor.