Fray Marcos was perplexed. He needed Esteban as guide; he resented him as competitor; and he deplored him for his immorality with women; but he could not even begin to know what to do with him. With no fellow friar to consult, all he could do was brood enviously as he watched Esteban preempt more and more of the leadership. It was becoming Esteban’s expedition, and the Spanish soldiers recognized this.
‘You must do something about the blackamoor,’ they warned, but Marcos could not decide what.
However, sixteen days of this rich fol-de-rol was all he could stand, so on Passion Sunday, 23 March 1539, he proposed that Esteban should push on to scout the country through which the larger body of explorers would later pass. Since the black man could neither read nor write, an extraordinary convention was arranged, as Marcos would explain in the report he sent back to Mexico:
I agreed with Esteban that if he received any information of a rich, peopled land, he should not go farther, but that he return in person or send me Indians with this signal, which we arranged: that if the thing was of moderate importance, he send me a white cross the size of a hand; if it was something great, he send me a cross of two hands; and if it was something bigger and better than New Spain, he send me a large cross. And so the said Esteban, the black, departed from me on Passion Sunday after dinner, while I stayed on in this settlement.
The plan suited each man, for the white was overjoyed to be rid of the difficult Moor, who was equally pleased to be freed of the white, and he set forth in glory, carrying with him a horde which now totaled nearly three hundred singing and dancing Indian followers.
Garcilaço watched him as he left camp marching at the head of his own little brigade, swinging his rattles, leaping in the air now and then, shouting and exuding the joy he felt in serving as the spearhead of a conquering army.
Just before dancing away, he leaped at Garcilaço and cried enthusiastically: ‘Little man, we’re conquering a continent. You and I will earn great titles and more gold than we can carry.’ And into the dusty sunlight he led his happy band.
Four days after Esteban’s departure, Indian messengers ran, gasping, into camp, one of them bearing not a small cross, nor a cross of two hands, nor even a large one, but a cross so huge that he could scarcely carry it. To confirm its significance, he said in broken Spanish: ‘The Black One, he has reached Indians who have told him of the greatest thing in the world. The Cities we seek lie just ahead, and they are far richer than Mexico.’ One said that this concentration of wealth was known as the Seven Cities of Cíbola, and when he uttered the words—Las Siete Ciudades de Cíbola—they echoed with romance and cast a spell over all who heard them.
The first thing Fray Marcos did in this moment of wild excitement was to kneel beside the big cross and pray, giving thanks that he would have an opportunity to restore to Christianity the thousands of souls whom the Spaniards would soon encounter. His prayer came from the very roots of his being, for although he did seek fame for himself and power for his king, his first and deepest commitment was to the glory of God—that stray souls now in darkness should be brought back to the light of Jesus Christ. It was a solemn moment, but after he had remained on his knees for some time, worldly ambition took over and he began to think of himself. Drawing Garcilaço down beside him, he whispered: ‘It’s wonderful that you and I should discover this great thing, for when the settlement is completed, I shall be leader of all the priests and monks, guiding them in the salvation of souls, and you shall command a kingdom, like Cortés and Pizarro.’
Now Fray Marcos began his great deception, for after having traveled less than three leagues to the west, he began to speak as if he had reached the Pacific Ocean, a distance of more than a hundred leagues. Why did he do such a thing?
Hope? He desperately wanted to be recognized as a great explorer and he knew that the Pacific lay somewhere to the west. Anxiety? He carried strict orders to determine how far away the Pacific Ocean lay, so that supplies for the impending conquest might be forwarded by sea, but he was so eager to attend the larger task of finding Cíbola that he refused to be deterred by this lesser side trip to the ocean. Envy? He could not stand to have the former slave Esteban reap all the glory. Mental confusion? He had become so intoxicated with dreams that he ignored the requirement of substantiating them with reality. He dealt with soaring hopes, not facts.
But on Wednesday, 21 May, after evening prayers, those hopes received a harsh rebuff, for as he prepared for bed he heard someone shouting: ‘Someone’s coming!’ and through the shadows he saw a bedraggled Indian, his face and body covered with sweat, stumble toward camp, weeping and moaning. When Marcos ran to him he wailed a pitiful story, which the scribe later reported in this manner:
‘We were one day out of Cíbola, and with due caution Esteban sent ahead a group of messengers bearing a calabash ornamented with cascabels, and two feathers, one white, one red. Something about the calabash infuriated the chief of Cíbola, and he smashed it to the ground, crying: “If you come in to Cíbola, you will be killed.”
‘When the messengers told this to Esteban, our leader laughed and assured us that this was nothing, and that he had learned from his long travels that when an Indian chief exhibited irritation he proved later to be a good friend. So, ignoring our warnings, he marched boldly to Cíbola, where he was denied entrance and thrown into a house outside the walls.
‘All things were taken from him, trade articles and all, and he was allowed no food or drink, and in the morning we who watched saw with horror Esteban running to escape, followed by warriors from the city, and they slew him, and most of those who were with him.’
‘Esteban is dead,’ the Indians began to wail. ‘Esteban’s bones lie unburied, unhonored in the sand.’ When Garcilaço heard this dreadful news, he wept for his dancing friend, but Marcos comforted him: ‘This is but the story of one Indian, and who knows what his motives might be?’ However, two days later more messengers from Cíbola arrived, and their news was horrifying:
‘Fray Marcos, see our wounds! Of all the warriors who traveled with Esteban to find the Seven Cities, hundreds have been slain, not counting the many women who were with us.’
Marcos and his soldiers now had to admit that Esteban and most of his dancing, riotous followers were dead, and that if they tried to force their way into Cíbola, they, too, would be killed. So they halted where they were, many miles from the golden cities, and in their fear they turned back toward Mexico, and now Marcos concocted a second lie, the really massive one, and reported:
I asked that some of my men should go with me boldly to Cíbola, but I could do nothing with them. In the end, seeing me determined, two chiefs said they would go with me, and I pursued my journey until within sight of Cíbola, which I saw from a hill where I was able to view it. The city is bigger than La Ciudad de México, and at times I was tempted to go to it, because I knew that I ventured only my life, which I had offered to God the day I commenced this journey, but at the end I refrained from doing so, considering the danger that if I died, I would not be able to make a report of this country, which to me appears the greatest and best of the discoveries.
Months later, when Garcilaço stood in the reception hall in the capital, listening as Fray Marcos told of these glories to Viceroy Mendoza, he stood silent and ashamed. He knew that his father had never been close to the Pacific Ocean or to the Seven Cities of Cíbola, and as for the claim that Cíbola was grander than Mexico City, that was a preposterous compounding of the lie.
Why did the boy share in this duplicity? Why did he not cry out to Mendoza ‘Viceroy, these are lies! There are no Seven Cities! There is no gold!’ He was prevented by three considerations. He loved his father and refused to humiliate him. Also, despite what he had heard from Cabeza’s own lips about his exploration of the region, Garcilaço still hoped that the cities of gold and their lost Christians existed. But most important was the matter of personal ambition, for after Marcos had told his infamous lies, the great Mendoza to
ok Garcilaço aside and said: ‘Son, you are one half-Indian who has a fine future in this country. Because of your good work on the mission, when General Coronado marches north I want you to accompany him as a guide.’
Like Cabeza de Vaca, like Esteban, like Marcos, and yes, like Viceroy Mendoza himself, the boy was seduced by the vision of what the land of many lands might be, and he kept silent.
Garcilaço was proud that the official guide for the Coronado expedition was to be his father, but he became apprehensive as to what the soldiers might do when they marched north only to find that the Seven Cities of Gold did not exist. When he asked Marcos about this, the friar airily dismissed such fears: ‘The Cities must be there. You heard Bishop Zumárraga prove logically that they had to be.’
Garcilaço shrugged and turned his attention to his own affairs. Only fourteen, but a veteran traveler, he decided to use the great adventure as an opportunity to build foundations of honor and courage which he had seen exemplified so worthily in Cabeza. He endeavored to seem very military when they reported to the western town of Compostela, where the huge expedition was about to be reviewed by Viceroy Mendoza, who had authorized this venture.
First in line was Coronado, a handsome man, lithe, daring and extremely capable; he believed in God and in the destiny of the Spanish race, and he contemplated the conquest of a continent. Also, he could laugh easily, and he enjoyed being with soldiers, parading boldly in the vanguard when on parades like this one, but prudently sending out trained scouts when danger threatened.
Garcilaço’s eyes widened when the first elements passed: two hundred and twenty-five horsemen, caballeros they were called, young gentlemen unaccustomed to manual work but eager for battle. ‘Look!’ the boy called to those about him, for now came a group of horsemen in full armor, some in metal, some in leather. They were a ferocious lot, and Garcilaço heard an official boast: ‘Conquerors of Europe, Peru and Mexico! God help the Indian who makes a wrong move in their direction.’
Next came the spiritual representation for this great enterprise: five Franciscan friars, including Fray Marcos, heads high, thirsty to win distant souls to Jesus. How willingly he and his fellows had volunteered to share all dangers; they were indeed Soldiers of Christ.
Behind them marched sixty-seven foot soldiers—some of whom had campaigned triumphantly through the Lowlands and Austria—displaying the sophisticated weapons which had made them famous: harquebuses, those heavy matchlock pieces that threw devastating round balls at least a hundred feet; crossbows made of ash so strong that some had to be cocked by cranks which drew the cord back to firing position; pikes with hideous three-part jagged ends, fine for disemboweling; and all sorts of swords, daggers, stilettos and maces. And when these foot soldiers of Spain concealed their faces behind vizored helmets or in jet-black pots with slits for seeing, they struck terror in men’s hearts.
More than two hundred personal servants followed, some Indian, some black, and eighty stable hands to tend the horses and see that the six cannon were brought forward in good condition.
Garcilaço enjoyed the end of the procession as much as the beginning, for here came more than a thousand Indian helpers, some in war paint, some with feathers, others with decorated clubs gleaming in the sun, all bowing to the viceroy, who nodded gravely as they passed. The next group caused the boy worry, for he could not comprehend how its members would participate in any battle: several hundred women, Indians and a few Spanish soldiers’ wives, wearing beautiful flowers in their hair and bright shawls about their shoulders. Clouds of dust hovered in the air as these women went past. After them came the cows and sheep on which the marchers would feed.
At the rear, so valuable that they could be guarded by Spaniards only, came many horses, wonderful chargers of Spanish and Arab ancestry, bred for the most part in Mexico but with a substantial scattering of steeds imported directly from Spain. As animals of war, they had always created terror among the Indians of Mexico, and Coronado expected them to do so again. These precise figures can be cited because on this day of final review, 22 February 1540, the notary Juan de Cuebas of Compostela made careful record of every Spanish caballero or foot soldier present, noting what mounts and arms he brought, and Garcilaço watched as Cavalry-Captain Don García López de Cárdenas stepped forward to have his property listed: ‘Twelve horses, three sets of arms of Castilla, two pairs of cuirasses, a coat of mail.’
Late in arriving for the muster was Infantry-Captain Pablo de Melgosa, a doughty little fellow with a perpetual smile, a great gap between his two big front teeth, hair in his eyes and a nose that had been pushed sideways by several fists. He came dustily into camp leading two small donkeys that could scarcely be seen beneath their load of armament. As soon as he stopped the beasts, he shouted for the notary to come and verify his possessions, and when Cuebas had his quills and papers ready, Melgosa began throwing things at his feet and announcing in a loud voice what they were.
‘Two harquebuses, both cast in Flanders. Two crossbows, and note that each is worked by gears. Those two donkeys.’
‘We don’t list donkeys,’ Cuebas said haughtily, resting his quill above the paper.
Ignoring this rebuke, the enthusiastic young captain resumed his listing: ‘A gallegán of the best Austrian manufacture. This buckskin jacket, this black pot helmet from Toledo.’
After this minor armory had been recorded, Melgosa began divesting himself of things he carried on his body: ‘Two swords, also of Toledo. Dagger. Knife with ivory handle. Two knee pieces, which you can see are of the best steel and leather. Gauntlets with brass fittings across the knuckles. And two stilettos.’ Any jovial man so accoutered was bound to become Garcilaço’s favorite, and in those first days he became Melgosa’s part-time page, hoping to learn honor and the arts of war from him.
Garcilaço divided his time between Fray Marcos and his new hero, Infantry-Captain Melgosa, the walking arsenal, who was a joy to be with, for he was an adventurous, rowdy man who never feared to challenge the presumptions of the cavalry.
‘Look at them!’ he sneered one night as the unwieldy caravan stumbled to a halt. ‘Not a man among these dandies knows how to pack a horse. Ten more days of this and those mounts will be dead.’ Each gentleman officer had to transport his personal belongings on his own male horses, while the heavy burdens of the expedition were carried by mares and mules. But even the lighter burdens assigned to the horses could be damaging if improperly stowed, and when Garcilaço watched the caballeros, he saw that Melgosa was right; they were killing the creatures on which they depended.
Melgosa was particularly harsh in his condemnation of Cavalry-Captain Cárdenas: ‘He ought to know better. Those are excellent horses he has, the best. And he’s destroying them.’ Now Garcilaço observed the fiery captain, and he could see that Cárdenas had no regard for his beasts’ welfare.
One morning as the cavalry was packing, Garcilaço made bold to address the captain: ‘Sir, why don’t you distribute your loads more evenly?’
‘Why is that your concern?’
‘Your best horse is getting deep sores.’
‘I leave such matters to the Indian slaves.’
‘But they’re still your animals. Look, you have five that can no longer serve.’
‘Could you do better?’ he snapped.
‘I could,’ and when Cárdenas saw how expertly the young muleteer could pack a beast, and care for it when the pack was unloaded, he appointed Garcilaço to mind his string, and the horses mended so quickly that on one unforgettable morning as the expedition approached the northern limits of civilized Mexico, the gruff captain said: ‘You can ride that brown mare,’ and thus the boy became a member of the cavalry.
But when foot-soldier Melgosa saw him so mounted he became furious: ‘Real men fight on foot. Cavalry is for show.’ This was the contemptuous attitude which existed in all armies: the disdain of foot soldiers for the cavalry, and the reverse.
Because Garcilaço was now a horseman, h
is allegiance transferred to Captain Cárdenas, and the more he studied this hot-tempered man the more he thought he understood the nature of honor. Cárdenas was the junior son of a family bearing an exalted title, and this heritage constantly manifested itself, for he was contemptuous of inferiors, punctilious where his vanity was concerned, and eager to challenge anyone who even appeared to affront him. More than Melgosa, more than Coronado himself, Cárdenas loved the brutality of army life, the forced marches, the sudden forays against lurking enemies, the swordplay at close quarters and the military companionship of the field. Much sterner than Fray Marcos, much more combative than Melgosa (who was content to fire his harquebuses from a distance if that would do the job), Cárdenas became to Garcilaço the ideal Spanish fighting man, supplanting Cabeza de Vaca as his idol.
The army had marched some days when Garcilaço had his first opportunity to see how Spanish caballeros were supposed to behave. He was riding in company with Army-Master Lope de Samaniego, second-in-command, when that gallant warrior, much experienced in Indian fighting, was sent to a village to acquire supplies, and in pursuit of his duty, was struck by a stray arrow which penetrated his eye as he lifted the visor of his helmet. He died immediately, which Garcilaço accepted as something to be expected in warfare, but what happened next amazed him.
Following the orders of Cavalry-Officer Diego López, who now assumed Samaniego’s command, Spanish soldiers rounded up as many Indians as they could, and a sergeant passed among them, saying: ‘This one looks as if he might have come from that village,’ and upon this casual identification the suspect was dragged away and hanged. When a long row of corpses swayed in the breeze, the army left, assured that the Indians of this area at least had learned not to shoot arrows at Spaniards.