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© 2004 by Donald L. Lucero. All rights reserved.

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A NATION OF

SHEP HERDS

A Novel Based On A True Story

The pure Spaniard has always been

an agriculturalist by necessity,

and a shepherd by choice,

when he was not a soldier.

—Miguel de Unamuno

Spain was essentially

a nation of shepherds.

—John A. Crow

Spain: The Root and the Flower

PROLOGUE

On April 30, 1598, nine years before the founding of Jamestown,

Virginia, and the Popham Colony of Maine, and 22 years before

the Pilgrims anchored in Cape Cod Bay, Spain established a permanent colony in the high country of New Mexico. A Nation of Shepherds, which was inspired by this historic event, commemorates the lives of the 129 soldier-colonists and their families who were among the members of this first successful colonizing expedition.

No one portrayal of a historic event can be completely accurate. History is inevitably compromised in any telling. This is especially true when the author is attempting to compensate for things that have been told badly or, as in the present case, to offer a point of view not included in the previous tellings.

Despite the loss of documents in Mexico City and in New Mexico, during the Pueblo Indian Revolt of 1680, we have a surprising amount of factual information regarding the settlement of New Mexico. Among the major sources there are the documents published by Herbert E. Bolton and Charles W. Hackett; the incredible archival research conducted by George P. Hammond and Agapito Rey; a tract on the entrada written by Fray Juan de Torquemada; and notes on the archaeology of San Gabriel, New Mexico’s first capital. Although this information does not rival that provided by the works of William Bradford, John Winthrop, John Eliot, or Cotton and Increase Mather regarding the settlement of the New England frontier, the information is sufficient to both inspire one’s imagination and to prevent wild and arbitrary speculation regarding the colonization. While these sources reflect a Spanish colonial bias, they seem to record the facts, both favorable and unfavorable, allowing one to draw his/her own conclusions from the information presented. The gap in the documentation, of course, is the total absence of Indian sources. The Indians of New Mexico did not have a written language, and their oral histories regarding some key events appear to be either lacking or of very recent interpretation. This makes the reconstruction of this history from an Indian perspective a very difficult, if not impossible, endeavor.

The task I set for myself was to take an amazing story about real people and, as accurately as possible, tell it in a blend of fact and fiction. My obligation to history was to remain true to the facts, and to ‘get it right.’ In recounting the story, however, I was forced to fill a complete void in my knowledge regarding the lives of the Robledo family in Spain and in New Spain. In building the lives of these people, and in providing a hypothesis for their emigration to the New World, I tethered my imagination to what is known about the social and economic conditions of the historic period.

The narrative, which is written in a semi-documentary style, is divided into three acts or periods similar to the manner in which a Spanish play would have been presented. Except for two people, each of the individuals depicted in Period III, “The Kingdom of New Mexico,” was a member of the New Mexico colony. Antonio de Godoy, fictional chronicler of the expedition, replaces Juan Perez de Donis and Juan Gutierrez Bocanegra who were the actual secretaries of the mission. Godoy is patterned after Diego de Godoy, the Royal Notary who served in a similar capacity with Hernando Cortes. The fictional Godoy is charged with keeping the diary, and acts as cosmographer, and as mapmaker for the New Mexico expedition. These were written, described, and drawn by him in this story for the purpose of promoting Spain’s most remote Northern Kingdom.

Although this narrative is based on fact, I have used fictional elements to add drama, detail and explanation. The following will clarify which is which:

King Philip II and Hernando Cortes are historical figures whose actions were as described. Elvira del Campo is historical. Her crime, torture and testimony were as presented.

The religious facts are historical. Brother Joaquin Rodriguez, Senor Mattos, and Teo Machado are fictional.

Statements regarding the beginnings of Marranism, Inquisitional procedures, and the religion of the Marranos are from A History of the Marronos by Cecil Roth.

The journals attributed to Pedro Robledo the elder, are fictional. To my knowledge, no private diaries, letters, journals, or notebooks from the ordinary colonists survive from this period except for the epic poem, A History of New Mexico, published by Gaspar Perez de Villagra at Henares, Spain, in 1610, the letter from Alonso Sanchez to Rodrigo del Rio de Losa, and the letter from the officials of the royal army in New Mexico to the king.

The Indian attack on the train of 60 wagons carrying $30,000 worth of cloth actually happened. The plague of 1544 and 1555 recurred in 1575 and continued through a part of 1577. The deaths from hunger, thirst, and the effects of the cruel disease, are said to have exceeded 2,000,000, and occurred as presented.

Lucia’s carta de arras, which in this story is said to survive among the archives at the church in Valladolid, is fictional. The names of Catalina’s parents are unknown.

The geological, meteorological, calendrical, and astrometrical events were pretty much as described. The ‘march across the sky’ referred to when Onate leaves San Gabriel for his ‘expedition toward the east,’ pertains to George A. Custer and occurred in 1876.

The letters and reports attributed to Juan de Onate are historical. However, some of the descriptions of New Mexico and of its native peoples, are from the reports of Antonio de Espejo.

The reports attributed to Antonio de Godoy are historical, although the author is unknown.

The building of the acequia, or irrigation canal, mills, and church at San Juan are conjectured, although based on archaeological evidence, the needs of the village, and the engineering involved in their construction.

The building of the outpost north of San Juan and of the finca de San Pedro are supported by vague references among historical documents.

The unearthing of the dinosaur fossil, although historical, did not occur until 1947.

Certain words in the text regarding “a newer world,” “knowledge,” and “the quest” are from Ulysses by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Quotations regarding the gypsies are from The Gypsies by Angus Fraser. The poem, The Snow Man, is by Wallace Stevens.

Each of the entries in the Epilogue is historic.

The information and characterizations made regarding the leaders of the New Mexico expedition are as accurate as can be determined from archival records. Although this is a work of fiction, the thoughts and dialogues I have attributed to figures in the narrative are based on research and on my understanding of the relevant people, places and events. There are certain scenes in which I have used my imagination, based on research, to create a thought process or even a conversation in order to give the scene its full expression. This seems totally legitimate as one can infer a thought process from a record of behavior. Archival records, however, are insufficient for helping us know New Mexico’s ordinary colonists. We have little information about them beyond their origins, and the physical description of the men and of their participation in some the colony’s leading events. Therefore, I have drawn New Mexico’s colonists to represent individuals from all aspects of Spain’s Third Estate, its ordinary people.

In many respects, the questions posed in this narrative echo questions about contemporary life. The year 1598, like 1998, was a banner year of optimism and confidence, the staging period for entree into a new century. Yet, despite this unbridled optimism and confidence, the apparent initial results of the colonial enterprise were abject failure, disintegration, and abandonment. I hope that the characterizations I have made regarding the colonists in respect to their participation in and contribution to this debacle have done no one a disservice. It is unfortunate that some of the colonists’ behaviors appear aberrational, startling, or even criminal, but they seem to be supported by research.

In the final analysis, may I say that I have the utmost respect and admiration for the achievements of these colonists. In individual drive, stubborn will, and indefatigable courage, they were the match of any people, and this is their story.

—Donald L. Lucero de Godoy

Dartmouth, Massachusetts

PERIOD I

THE KINGDOM OF CASTILE

The Tribunal

March 28, 1577

The sound was merely that of a hurried tap made with the butt of

the knife he carried to raise the occupants of the small house but

no one else. There was no answer.

The windowless house, which faced a stonewalled lane, looked like little more than a heap of puddled stone all gathered together. The man who had come up the cobblestone path stepped away from the doorway and looked up to see a whisper of white smoke, the remnant of a cooking fire, which rose from the stone chimney. He returned to the doorway, pressed his ear against the upper hinge and listened with every fiber of his being before continuing.

“Pedro,” he whispered as he slapped at the door with an open palm, his knife now replaced in its leather sheath beneath his dark clothing. “It’s Adan,” he said. “I pray I’m in time.”

Within the house, Luis, who had been sleeping before the open hearth, rose and moved to the poor bed where his aunt and uncle slept. Gently, he touched his uncle’s shoulder. “Tio,” he said, “there’s someone at the door.”

Pedro stirred, ran his fingers through his matted hair, and, dressed only in a nightshirt, rolled out of bed. Both he and his nephew appeared at the door where they were confronted by Pedro’s workmate.

“Pedro,” Adan said breathlessly as he stepped over the stone threshold, “they’re coming to get you. At first light, Pedro,” he warned, “they’re coming for you.”

“Who?” Pedro asked as he peered around the open door before closing it. “Who?” he asked again, as he struggled to put on his trousers and his boots.

“The Holy Office,” Adan answered as he assisted in closing the heavy door, the three of them lifting it so that it would clear the threshold. “They blame you for the prisoner’s escape and now he’s been killed.”

“Killed!” Pedro asked incredulously. “How? By whom?”

“A posse sent looking for him by the Inquisition trailed him to a robber’s cave, and he was killed by them before he could reveal his secrets regarding additional backsliders. They say you ruined years of work by allowing him to escape.”

“How could he be responsible?” asked Catalina, who was now standing behind her husband in the candlelit room. “Pedro is a scribe only,” she defended in her peculiarly soft and sweet voice. “He’s not responsible for prisoners.”

“The prisoner was de los Santos,” Pedro replied as a way of explanation, “one of those betrayed to the Holy Office by the wife of Alonso de Maya. She was the one I told you about, Catalina. What is it now . . . eight years ago? Elvira del Campo, who was charged with practicing Judaism in secret . . . not eating pork and with putting on clean clothes on Saturday. The Edict of Grace1 had been published, and the Term of Grace2 had passed, and the poor woman was being required to confess. You should have heard her, Catalina,” Pedro said. “I was working in the room next to the chamber where she had been taken and where she was being told to tell the truth. She was subjected to the jarra (jug)3 and then to the tying of the arms. ‘Senores,’ she screamed, over and over again ‘remind me of what I have to say for I don’t know it!’ A cord was applied to her arms and twisted and she was being admonished to tell the truth. ‘I did it!’ she screamed over and over again. ‘I did what the witnesses say. I don’t know how to tell it.’ I went next door to plead for leniency, but they wouldn’t allow me to enter. It was obvious that they wanted her to confess and that there was some proper way for her to say it. She was given 16 turns of the cord until it broke. She would have done anything—said anything—to end her torture,” Pedro said, “denouncing and perhaps even inventing the names of others whom she claimed were guilty of lighting special lamps on Friday evening, observing the Day of Atonement, or some other trivial action performed absent mindedly or by mere force of habit. Who knows of what, if anything, de los Santos was guilty!” he exclaimed. “I was merely being asked to escort him to the old Castle of Maqueda. We were within sight of the towers, Catalina. I could see them in the mist—four towers, plain and severe. We were almost there when his mule tumbled over the side of a ravine and he was gone!”

“It doesn’t matter, Pedro,” Adan said. “Someone’s got to be the scape-goat and this time it’s you. The calificadores will find ample justification for further action, and your punishment will be severe: the frame, the funnel and the water, Pedro. If you survive the torture and are convicted, you’ll be sent to the galleys. You’re done here, Pedro,” Adan said in resignation. “Perhaps you can make your plea to authorities in Toledo, but in Torrijos and Carmena, you’re done. We must go!”

“How go, Adan?” Pedro asked while looking at his wife as though seeking an answer. “Carmena has been our home for generations. How can I be made to leave?”

“You have no choice, Tio,” Luis said, as he gathered his uncle’s cloak from its place on the wall. “Go with Adan, Tio, go!”

“They’re right, Pero,” Catalina added using his pet name. “You can go to my papa’s home in Toledo. He’ll hide you. We can join you there.”

Adan, who had been standing before the open hearth, now moved to the oaken table where he sought to help Pedro gather his belongings. “That may work for awhile, dona Catalina,” he said, “and it’s good that you have a place to go. But they’ll follow you and compel Pedro’s return. He has a few days—perhaps a few weeks at most. Maybe your father can help you get to the coast where you can make use of the license for overseas travel you obtained a few years ago. That license may be your ticket to freedom. Anyhow,” Adan said, “we’ve no time to talk. They’ll be here at first light. Take only what’s required.”

“Go, Pero,” Catalina begged. “We’ll follow you.”

“They won’t let you,” Pedro replied. “That’s how they’ll get me to return.”

“We’ll find a way to get them out,” Adan promised. “We’ve done it before, and we can do it again. I’ve got mules waiting below the walls.”

“Go, Tio,” Luis urged while putting a comforting arm around his aunt’s shoulder. “We’ll meet you in Toledo. Two days only. Mi Tia, Ana, Diego, mi tocayo, Luis and Lucia. We’ll meet you in two days!”

“At the Pena del Rio,” replied Pedro who was at his best when designing and executing a plan, “you’ll have to avoid the Moorish bridges and the river is the most shallow there. I’ll have lines strung across the Tagus at the great rock. We’ll use them to steady the cart and to pull you across. Look for the towers of Malpica, Luis. Use them to guide you,” he stated emphatically as he held and kissed his wife for the final time. “Day after tomorrow, Luis,” he said as he stuffed several items including his journal into a leather bag. “Wait for light, Luis,” he added as he and Adan moved though the open doorway. “Wait for light.”

***

As Catalina and Luis approached the river, they traversed the barren slopes of the Castilian meseta, a high tableland of fertile plains, broken here and there by a lone olive tree, piled gray stones, sparse scrub, and a tangle of undergrowth all dusty-gray but excellent cover for game. As they rode in the darkness, Catalina confirmed what Luis had been hearing for some period—hounds in full cry apparently in pursuit of game. They tried to assure themselves that these were the sounds of an early hunting party, but both knew this to be unlikely. They were, they feared, the ones being hunted.

Catalina and Luis had for some period been picking their way through a riverine forest of tamarisk and willow in their attempt to reach the river. Luis, who was holding his three-year-old cousin of the same name, flailed at the oxen with his right hand. The cart, which was filled with the two adults and a locust of children, rose and fell with great jolts as it bumped and rocked its way towards the steep bank.

Suddenly—almost miraculously—they emerged from the tangle and were at the water’s edge where they were confronted by a raging torrent now swollen with rain. Luis dismounted and entered the slower water that flowed near the bank, testing its depth with his oaken pole.

“Here, Tia,” he said urgently. “We can enter the water here.”

“How do you know this is the right place, Luis?” his aunt asked in a whispered tone as he reentered the cart. “Your Tio said to wait for light, and we don’t have the towers to guide us.”

“It will be all right, Tia,” Luis replied. “We may be a little above the rock, but the current will carry us downstream where the lines will stop us.”

“No, Luis,” his aunt said, holding her son Luis and his four-year-old sister Lucia to her side. “Let’s wait. It will only be a short time till light. Then we can see.”

“We have no choice, Tia,” Luis replied as he prodded the oxen with the point of his long goad. “They’re behind us. We’ve got to go!”

The oxen were balky. The sound and the smell of the muddy water, which carried a river of debris, frightened them. They required the whip to compel them to enter the raging stream, a dark swirling torrent which they could now also feel, taste and see . . . and it was terrible. Luis immediately realized he had made the wrong decision, that he had chosen the wrong time and place which was more than two harquebus shots above the spot suggested to him by his uncle. His frightened beasts, tethered to an oaken shaft that was but an extension of the framework of the cart’s body, plunged into a deep hole. His beasts, with only their horns and eyes visible, bellowed with fright as they sought firm ground. Luis again entered the water where, holding on to the horns of the nearest beast, he attempted to turn his team toward shore. Momentarily, the docile animals quieted and began to turn with the current. The cart, however, snagged on an obstruction, lurched forward, and then overturned, dragging its massive beasts below the surface. The wooden frame and the bows of their harness, which had assured their bondage and servitude, now guaranteed their death.

As the cart overturned in the intense current—with the frame yet bumping and reeling as it dragged along the ragged bottom—Diego was thrown into the turgid stream. He was pressed against one of the wheels, a solid barrier of three pieces, which was attached to the one axle. He struggled to remain upright as he held onto his five-year-old sister, Ana, who had entered the water on his side of the cart.

“My babies! My babies!” His mother cried as she desperately flailed in the raging water. Diego could not see her for both she and Lucia were on the other side of the second wheel.

“I’ve got Ana, Mama,” he cried as he fought to hold on to her. “I’ve got Ana.”

“And Luis?” she screamed.

“I don’t know, Mama,” he cried as he searched the water around him. “I don’t see them.”

Diego, six-years-old, and the oldest of the four children, held Ana around her waist as the water worked to tear her from his grasp. In an instant, the rushing water pulled her thin body from beneath his arm.

“Diego,” she said quietly. Just his name. Nothing else.

“Hold on to my neck, Ana!” he cried as he tried to work his way around the wheel, his move encumbered by his hold on her wrist. “Hold on to me, Ana!” he yelled in desperation. “Don’t let go!” he cried as the first light of dawn came up on his face.

As he inched his way around the ancient wheel, the Stygian water filled his mouth and nostrils with mud, and he feared that both he and Ana would also be swept away. It was beginning to become light now, and he thought he could see the distant shore, although the muddy water which cascaded over his back and shoulders made it difficult to see. Ana’s thin arms encircled his neck while the cart reeled and groaned, turning this way and that as it moved down the streambed. In the dim light he could see the oxen’s yoke. One of the two bow-shaped pieces of wood which had been inserted from beneath the neck of one of the oxen had broken. Its occupant was now gone, and hanging from below the horizontal bar was a hook to which a draw line was still attached. He released his grip on Ana’s wrist and reached for it, hoping to put it to some use. “Hold on, Ana,” he begged. “papa will get us.”

As he reached for the rope, Ana began to lose her hold on him. He could feel her small hands grasping and tearing at him as she slowly slid from her place on his back. And when he turned, he could see her, a beautiful elfin doll, who appeared to be suspended on a cushion of air, the cold black water revealing a deep gash on her forehead. He reached for her. She looked back at him with eyes seemingly filled with wonder, said nothing, and then she was gone.

***

Pedro stood with his father-in-law’s overseer, Tonio, on the south bank of the river as the sun came up shining on the red of his hair and beard. He was distressed by what he saw. The lines which he and Tonio’s men had strung across the water the previous evening were now largely submerged by the flood waters, their ends only apparent where they emerged from the angry waves and were tethered to a tree. It was a bad plan, he said to himself, his blue eyes searching the far bank. He realized that these floodwaters should have been anticipated. They might be coming from as far away as the Sierra de Albarracin. The river, which cut into limestone rocks there, flowed through narrow, sinuous valleys with deep canyons and abundant ravines and was often in flood from unseen storms. It runs more peacefully here, Pedro said to himself. But above—and also below Toledo where it again flows through narrow, steep-edged trenches formed by quartzites and shales—the river could be deadly. “I should have anticipated this,” he said to Tonio as they surveyed the far bank. “We must signal them and tell them not to cross.”

Pedro pulled at his beard in apprehension as he searched the far bank in the early light. He was concerned that his family had not yet arrived. He could see various items of flood debris—logs, a market basket, an unshorn lamb—as they moved downstream. He had not taken notice of a circular shaped object that now broke the surface, but as the object moved slowly down the streambed and lodged on a rock directly across from him, he realized that it was a segmented wheel, and that it was attached to a cart. Pedro immediately entered the water but then retreated, reaching back with his right hand at the rope being offered him by Tonio. He then again entered the water as did Tonio and two of Tonio’s men, pressing their lean, muscular bodies against the tow ropes but unable to move forward due to the tumble of the water.

Eventually, the men were able to attach a rope to the upturned cart and to drag it ashore. Ana’s body lay but a short distance below the great rock, and was found later that morning. The roots of a tree had snagged her body and that of a fallow deer. However, despite extensive searches, which were conducted on both banks of the river, they were unable to find the bodies of the two Luises.

***

Although a cart had been offered to carry Ana from where she had been found, Pedro refused to relinquish her care to another. Accompanied by black-robed men, whose mumbled prayers seemed to lack both rhyme and reason, he carried her from the bank of the river to the home of his father-in-law, Alonso Lopez, where Catalina, Diego and Lucia had been taken. Here Catalina and the children were lodged in their mother’s old bedroom, the room in which Ana and each of the children had been born. Surrounded by a throng of black-robed men, Ana was placed on her mother’s bed, which had been draped in black. In the flickering light of the priests’ candles, Diego and Lucia could see Ana wrapped in a small cotton blanket and cradled in their mother’s arms as if asleep. Outside the room, Pedro’s grief exploded in angry words regarding the unwelcome procession from the river. In his anguish, he likened it to “the pagan observance of the Robigalia,” the procession through fields of corn to pray for the preservation of the crops from mildew. “My God,” he exclaimed to his father-in-law who had attempted to console him, “have they nothing better to do? God save us from them!” He later apologized to the priests for his outburst, but they often had to deal with the peoples’ anger as they provided for their spiritual needs and had been little put off by his display.

Catalina, ordinarily frail-looking, gentle, and perhaps a bit hesitant in her manner, had inevitably begun to crumble. Her conduct, if not yet that of one insane, was certainly that of an individual laboring under extreme distress. Mute and benumbed, she first lay with Ana in her room until the child was taken from her to prepare her for her burial. She then sat alone in her cell, an alcove which opened onto the zaguan, or vestibule, but which was completely dark and had previously served only for sleeping. There, draped in black, she sat with her head seemingly nailed to her hand and appeared to be involved in a battle to retain her senses. Asking repeatedly for Luis, she seemingly did not comprehend the responses she received. She sat like this through the day, refusing to leave Ana who had now been returned to her in a small pine box. Before Ana was removed from her room to the church, Catalina required that Pedro pry open the pine shell in which she had been placed. Then, with no alteration of demeanor, she looked at, and even put her hands on, Ana’s body, which was now wrapped in a white linen shroud, perfectly white and clean. Afterward, Catalina became totally closed off and listless.

The coffin was placed on a poor catafalque before the great cathedral, a vast edifice of marble and granite, where the coffin was opened again, the box of wood pried apart, and her cerements again revealed. The grief stricken observers, among whom were Catalina’s children, were required to affirm that the body was truly Ana’s. Then the coffin was closed again and draped in black.

Night was coming on by the time a cart was provided and the grim cortege was arranged in the cobbled street before the cathedral. There King Ferdinand and Queen Isabel had prayed before the tomb of their great- great-grandfather exactly a hundred years before. Catalina, supported by Pedro and followed by her two surviving children, walked barefoot behind the cart with a crush of priests chanting prayers for the dead as they began to wind their way toward the river.

An opacous cloud of fog hugged the earth, “the heaviest cloud in the world,” noted Diego, and soon it became so dense that they were barely able to move along the road. They pushed on, however, stopping seven times along their route of desolation until Catalina, whose strength had been ebbing, was unable to walk any further. She was placed in the cart with Ana, and again they went forward.

The procession continued along the river until the mourners arrived at an ancient and beautiful stone bridge across from which was the burial place. There the coffin was opened for a final time. Catalina kissed Ana’s hands and feet. And then, for what seemed like hours, the small group, wrapped in their plain trappings, huddled around the small coffin, their wax torches guttering in the wind. The service, like the procession itself, was the essence of simplicity and equality. “God is the true judge,” said one of the priests. “May her death be an atonement for all sins she may have committed, and may she come to her place in peace.”

Pedro felt they were speaking of him and not of Ana. For what sins could this child have possibly committed? he asked himself.

With the final words of the priest now spoken, they tore their garments to put the mark of a broken heart upon their clothing. Then, with the dark of night nearly upon them, they picked up the small box and lowered it into the virgin ground, the sound of the first fall of earth on the coffin providing an air of finality

_____________

That evening after their return from the burial ground, Pedro and his father-in-law walked through the entire house making an inventory of its contents.

“You’ll take whatever you need Pedro,” his father-in-law said.

“I’ll repay you, don Alonso,” Pedro responded quietly as they made their way from room to room.

“We’re not going to worry about that now,” the older man said. “You’ll take what you need. And when you get to Sevilla, the cargo there will also be yours.”

“I can’t repay you for that, don Alonso,” Pedro said. “I don’t think we can accept it.”

“You’ll accept it, damn it!” his father-in-law said with a brief display of anger. “It’ll be your nest egg. It was to go to your cousin, Miguel de Sandoval, God rest his soul. But with him dead now, and with his wife, Catalina Sanchez now returned from New Spain, it’ll go to you.”

“But if I go, don Alonso,” Pedro said emphatically, continuing the conversation in which they had been engaged, “it won’t be as a fugitive.”

“However you go, Pedro,” his father-in-law responded as he closed the door to the storeroom they were leaving, “your days here are numbered.”

“But as a free man,” don Alonso, Pedro said, “never as a renegade.”

“Oh, your pride, Pedro,” Catalina’s father responded in exasperation, his lips tightening as though he was trying to control some emotion. “Your pride kept you from working for me, Pedro, and it’s going to get you killed.”

“It wasn’t my pride that killed my children, don Alonso,” Pedro responded. “It was my fear . . . and my stupidity.”

“What stupidity?” the older man asked as they ascended the worn stairs from the zaguan. “No one could have known the river would be in flood, Pedro. Do you think God is under an obligation to give notice of a coming misfortune? No one could have known,” he continued softly, his anguish now spent. “It was just an accident, Pedro,” he said while turning away from his son-in-law so that Pedro would not see the tears. He was silent before going on. “It was a tragic accident, that’s all,” he said quietly as he continued covering mirrors and emptying standing water throughout the house.

Pedro sat on a stool that stood on one side of don Alonso’s estrado de cumplimiento, or state salon. From there he could see the pictures, the heavy, carved wooden chests, the delicate chests of drawers and the sideboards inside the room, as well as the salon’s balcony which stood outside its full length windows whose silken curtains now billowed in the wind. The balcony of forged iron, the angles of which were decorated with balls of copper, overlooked the towers and spires of the city and faced the damnable river, a sullen dark thing without obvious movement. As he looked at the balcony through the open windows, a rush of emotion seized him as he thought of the memories the balcony evoked. It was here that he had first held Diego and each of his children.

“She was the most perfect child,” Pedro said of Ana, speaking more to himself than to Catalina’s father as he rose and moved toward the windows. “So bright and eager to learn. Nose to everything. If it was there, she had to know what and why. Questions all through the day,” he said of his five-year-old. “And Luis,” he continued with a catch in his throat, “he was just a baby. My poor innocent lambs,” he said. “There’s been such suffering and I alone am responsible.”

He stood for a moment, lost in his own thoughts, and then continued as though trying to provide an explanation to himself. “I ran because I believed it to be the right thing to do,” he said. “The Inquisitors would have trumped up some charge against me. You know how they are. They might even have tried me for heresy. Perhaps I would have been acquitted,” he said, “but who can take the chance? Persons have been known to languish in prison for as long as 14 years before they might be pronounced free of guilt or blame. I couldn’t risk it, don Alonso,” he said in resignation.

The old man was silent for a long time, and when he responded, it was with a voice full of sadness. “I never wanted you to work for the Inquisition,” said don Alonso, pulling his cloak about his shoulders. “I felt it unseemly, Pedro. Baptism has done little more than convert a considerable proportion of our people from infidels outside the Church to heretics inside it. And these searching inquiries into our conduct, and the punishments meted out for those of us found guilty of backsliding, are not only unseemly but criminal,” he said. “I didn’t want you to have anything to do with it.”

“And I thought of my job as only that of a scrivener,” Pedro said. “I was lying to myself, don Alonso,” he said sadly. “Now I feel like La Susanna, carrying on an intrigue with a Christian, disclosing our secrets, and bringing all to ruin. My interests were only in manuscripts and the law,” he said. “What have I done?”

“You’ve done nothing,” his father-law stated emphatically. “You give yourself more blame than you’re due. But I know your value, Pedro” he said. “You can do whatever you put your mind to. You’ll start on a new course and we’ll be partners.”

“But passage, don Alonso. How do we gain passage?”

“Everything’s for sale here,” his father-in-law responded as he joined Pedro at the balcony’s entrance, “titles of nobility, the offices of regidor and jurado, letters of legitimization for the sons of priests. Everything. The crown needs our money,” he said gesturing with his hand as though holding a fistful of coins. “My God, Pedro,” he said, “what does don Felipe owe, 37,000,000 duats? All grants have been suspended, Pedro. He can’t pay his bills. Don Felipe needs our money. It won’t be difficult to gain your passage,” he said with the air of one who has learned how to deal successfully and shrewdly in the world of commerce and politics.

For a few moments they stood looking at each other before Pedro’s father-in-law continued. “You’ll leave tomorrow, Pedro, and Tonio will see you to the coast.”

“I don’t see how we can go, don Alonso,” Pedro responded. “Catalina . . . Catalina can’t travel.”

“You’re right, of course,” his father-in-law said as he held back the curtain to get a better view of the night. “And under ordinary circumstances she’d remain with me until she was better. But she’s like her mother, Pedro,” his father-in-law said regarding his daughter, “seemingly fragile, but strong when it comes to her family. Her place,” he said, “is with you. You must try to distract her from her melancholy. Stay away from the towns and villages as much as you can, Pedro, and buy your provisions along the road. Avoid the milliones,” he said, referring to the taxes which were imposed upon everything one ate. “You should be able to buy everything you need along the way. I’m going to the corrals now,” he said, throwing the skirt of his cloak over his shoulders. “I must see to the mules.”

“I’ll go with you,” Pedro said, gathering his cloak about him.

“No,” his father-in-law responded, while taking his broad brimmed hat from its place near the glass doors. “You must get ready for tomorrow and there must not be too much noise about it,” said this shrewd and careful man. “You’re a good man, Pedro,” he continued, with the tears again welling in his eyes. “You must not grieve,” he said as he began to provide the advice which a father must give to his son. “You must look for happiness,” he said placing his hand on Pedro’s shoulder. “You must accept your lot, Pedro. You must say to yourself, ‘Perhaps it was for the best.’ I hope and pray that all goes well with you,” he said as he readied himself to leave the salon. “You’ll always be as my own to me, Pedro, and I want only for your safety.”

Pedro entered the gallery and watched his father-in-law as he closed the street door below him. As he stood on Catalina’s balcony of joys and sorrows, he recalled with an effusion of emotion that moment in which he had sat there with Diego looking over the tiled rooftops and spires of the ancient city and toward the Tagusian moat. He had often sat there with his father-in-law, listening to the music being sung at the cathedral, but on that particular evening with Diego there had been no music, the hushed village seemingly awaiting a momentous event.

_____________

The sky had been a ghostly rose and violet in color, lilac shadowed with majestic serenity. Pedro and Diego had been sitting there quietly while Pedro engaged in the long process of filling the bowl of his pipe with tobacco he had taken from a pouch in the pocket of his shirt. Then, suddenly, without warning, an incredible flock of perhaps a hundred or more swallows, swooped down out of the sky to the top of the balcony and then off again into the amethyst heavens. They flew in a line, one after another. At times, the swallows came within inches of their faces, the glossy blue-black on their upper parts contrasting beautifully with the white on their outer tail quills. They continued in this manner, swooping down with a delicate grace, flicking the pools of street water with their dark wings and then, with a shrill twitter, returning to the open sky. They continued like this for many minutes during which Diego and his father seemed to be members of the flock, participants in their aerial display.

“Papa, Papa! Look at them, look at them!” Diego had squealed. “Where’d they come from?” he asked, as he peered into the heavens, hoping that by some miracle they would return.

“They’re coming home, Diego,” his father had replied as he returned to the task of filling his pipe. “Home from the wilderness where they nest during the winter. I’ve not seen it, Diego,” he said, “but it’s called Las Marismas—the tidelands—and it’s a place where millions of land, water, and shore birds go to find food during our long winters. Birds come there from Asia and Africa and from all over Europe. Geese from Denmark, starlings from Germany, and the beautiful white egret from West Africa, among many, many others. It’s said they have purple herons, and bee-eaters and hoopes without number. Someday, perhaps you’ll see it, Diego,” he had said, not realizing the prophecy of his words. “It’s near Sevilla, but my travels aren’t likely to take me there.

“Birds, Diego!” he had exclaimed. “It’s all about birds. Each town and village is watched over by a guardian bird which, according to the day and hour, renders the town pleasing, ravishing, or disquieting. I’m not sure what bird guards your grandfather’s home, but Carmena is watched over by a dove. Adam is said to have named them and perhaps this is true, for they’re ancient auguries of that which is favorable or unfavorable,” he had said, beginning one of those tales for which he was justly famous.

“When Noah’s ark landed at Mount Ararat after the great flood, he let loose a raven which flew off into a blackened sky. For countless days, he awaited its arrival, but it did not return. He then sent out a dove, and it returned because it couldn’t find a place to land. Later,” he had continued, “he sent out the same dove two more times. On the second flight, it returned with an olive branch in its mouth. It was a sign, Diego, a sign to Noah that he, his family, and all the animals could come out of the ark and begin a new life.

“Good old Noah,” he had continued. “He was the only righteous person of his time. And he took enough birds and animals aboard his ark to re-populate the earth. He knew, as we’ve all come to know, that birds are the best indication of a good climate and country. And now it’s said that the birds of the monsoon are seen as messengers of hope, for if they come, they foretell a year of plenty. If they don’t come, people know that there’ll be famine throughout the land. They’re symbols of all things wild and free and are a blessing. We’ve only to read their signs, Diego. We’ve only to read their signs.

“Over there, mi ijiko,” he had said, gesturing towards the northwest, “beyond Carmena and Avila, that’s where your abuelo and I saw an enormous flock of stilts coming from the north, from France where they’re said to nest. You should have seen them, Diego,” he had said with enthusiasm. “There were hundreds of them, the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. Their necks were long, and their bills were, too, thin and very straight. They flew with their endless legs trailing behind them. I’d seen them before. On the Alberche below the walls at Escalona, their legs so long that they had to tilt their bodies to reach the ground. But when they fly, Diego,” he had continued, “they’re majestic. White with black wings and with a call like the yelp of a small dog. Your abuelo and I were on our way to Salamanca to visit the university. ‘Following knowledge endlessly like stars sinking below the horizon,’ is how my papa described it.”

“Stars, how stars, Papa?”

“Well, not stars, exactly” he had said, peering into the fading light and pulling his collar about his neck. “At least not the kind we see in the sky. But hopes and dreams. Salamanca is where your grandpa and I went in search of my education.”

“Further than Carmena, Papa?” Diego had asked. “Maybe we can go someday, Papa,” he had said, emphasizing the “we.”

“Perhaps, Diego,” his father had answered as though considering the possibility. “We’ll see, Diego,” he had said. ‘”We’ll see.”

_____________

Pedro leaned against the wrought iron rail and thought of the sentiment expressed by his father-in-law, a sentiment he wished his father had also held: that it’s better to dare mighty things than to count oneself among those that neither enjoy much nor suffer much. “You must not grieve,” his father-in-law had said. “You must look for happiness, for to do otherwise is to live in a gray twilight and know neither success nor failure.”

We’ve suffered much, Pedro said to himself, and Ana, Luis and my poor nephew paid the ultimate price. The joy of his existence had been rooted in Castile and now God who had given these children to him had also taken then away. “I’ll keep you in my heart,” he said aloud to his beloved dead. And with no further time to contemplate their loss, left the balcony.

This Crag of Sorrow

“I can go by myself, Papa,” Lucia pleaded in her small voice as she stood beside her hooded mule, the hem of her nightdress trailing in the mud. “Like Diego,” she said. “I can go by myself.”

“Shh,” her father responded as he put his finger to her lips. He then placed her astride her mule, the scent of her—of angel water and sleep—sweet in the damp cool air. “We’ll see, ijika,” her father promised as he placed her in her saddle. “You’ll go with Tonio for now,” he said, “but we’ll see. We’ll see how it goes.”

Lucia, appearing spare and wan, held her thin arms tightly across her chest refusing to touch the withers or mane of her beast. The corners of her budded lips drooped slightly at their edges as she observed the remainder of her family waiting in the darkness. While she sat there, her father so close she could have reached out and touched him, she looked down into her mother’s sedan chair and could, she thought, make out her mother’s knees and her clasped hands which were folded in her lap. It was one of those moments, however, when one did not know whether what one was experiencing was real or imagined. She knew that her mother’s face and neck were hidden from her view, and that it would have been impossible for her to see the auburn hair, long, white throat or those blue-green eyes which she wished were her own. But would she have been able to see her mother’s hands? she asked herself. Or was this just the way she knew her mother would be seated? She did not know. What she did know was that she could see or sense movement within the sedan chair as her mother rearranged her seating.

Within the chair, Catalina felt for the correct placement of her feet on top of the Moroccan cushion which she had asked to take from her mother’s parlor. She had, until this moment, been brooding and immobile, locked in a deep trance from which she could not seem to escape. However, with the realization that she had to provide for the welfare of her remaining children, she had broken through her passivity, and assumed an active role in the preparations, even seeking to take some precious objects from her parents’ home to which she would likely never return. The darkness, as well as the haunches of her lead mule, obscured her view forward, although she knew that her position in the train, as in life, was immediately behind her husband who now sat on his mule ahead of her. As she settled back within her enclosed settee, which rested on the haunches and shoulders of her mule team, she could, through the dark clothing and the black shawl that she wore, feel the cold leather of the sedan’s seat and back as they pressed against her frail body. Additional mules, coughing and wheezing in protest, carried the trunks and valises containing the meager clothing and household goods they had obtained from her father. Once mounted, the family waited in silence.

The stars and the moonlight cast shadows against the walls of the tortuous passageway, a street so narrow that the overhanging roofs of the adjacent homes nearly touched. The normal qualities of the stones of this passageway were unrecognizable in the veiled light. The sky, reflected in the family’s tears and in the pools of moisture that had collected from the evening’s heavy dew, had a timeless quality about it that did not identify it as either a day or night sky. In the darkness, Lucia could barely distinguish one silhouette from another as additional muleteers came up the cobbled path. She tried to tell whether or not any of them were men who worked for her grandfather. One of them—whom she identified by his ‘limp of Lepanto’—was Tonio, her grandfather’s mayordomo or overseer. It was unlikely she knew any of the others. Still, she wondered who these men were who were about to lead them into the night. The light had the cast of sadness. The sounds were those of anxious hooves. And the smells those of working men, leather, and mules.

In the darkness, Tonio and his head packer, or cargador, rechecked the seating of every load, each of them walking down his own side of the mule train, the clack of their double-soled boots resounding in the darkness. Tonio, who was responsible for the safety of his charges, his men, and his beasts, wanted to assure himself that his muleteers had done their work well as he felt for the correct placement and security of each item. Saddle clothes, grass stuffed pads, grass cinch, straw mat coverings—nothing was overlooked in his inspection. Once the examination was completed, he mounted his own mule which stood at the front of the train. Then with the cargador’s “Adios!” and Tonio’s response of “Vaya!” the mules, led by a bellmare and divided into four strings, began to inch their way down the steep cobblestoned corridor and away from the house on one of Toledo’s highest hills. Then, although admonished by his father not to look back, Diego glanced one final time at his grandfather’s home which now appeared empty, dark, and desolate, and at its exterior balcony as he rode beneath it. He searched in vain for the spot in the wall where he had hidden his white stone as a prayer to assure their return and worried that it would not be able to work its magic. However, his attention was quickly diverted to more pressing matters when one of his mother’s mules slid into his as they exited the corridor.

Through shadowed, Moorish streets like dark ravines, the family moved along steep, narrow corridors paved with cobbles taken from the muddy, red bed of the Tagus. They rode past crowded whitewashed houses, which faced terraced streets, the corridors overhung by glazed verandas or by wrought-iron balustrades enclosing narrow passages. The silence was broken only by the sound of hooves and of water splashing into stone basins.

As they neared the river, they rode through the ancient Jewish quarter of Toledo, virtually a town in itself, situated in the southwestern portion of the city. The southern section of the district sloped down an incline to the bank of the Tagus and included a fortress once known as the ‘Jew’s Citadel.’ Here, with the clatter of their mules the only sound to be heard they passed through the battle-scarred walls of the fortress, away from the roofs, towers, and domes of the ancient city and began their steep descent to the river.

Galiana’s Palace

A few plain trees and Spanish poplars marked the road the Robledo party traveled. There were many rocks, and the fields, which at winter’s end had been a broad stretch of parched meadows, were now covered with the emerald grasses of an early spring. The hollows of dry waterbeds were choked with tamarisk, their fine, feathery branches and minute scale-like leaves now moving in the pristine air. A gentle breeze sprang up along the deeply etched bed of the Tagus, bearing the scent of mud and dry leaves and, incongruously, the faint odor of animal dung, the remains of a previous passage.

As they rode alongside the river, which was bordered by white-trunked poplars and giant tamarisks, the sun began to tip the horizon, and the landscape in all directions became clearer. While riding, they began to see the harsh uplands long-celebrated in the annals of Spanish history. Streams interlaced the area of scrubby brush, rock rose, heather, and cork oaks, while in the heights, deer, foxes, lynx, wolves, and wild boar were to be found. A single cloud, like tufted cotton, was ridged against the sky as they headed toward a distant hill.

Riding through the area, Pedro thought of how, during visits to their grandfather’s home, the children had begged to be taken to see the local wonders. Scattered throughout the area were numerous prehistoric sites, all boasting megalithic ruins composed of huge stone monuments and tombs. Also in the area was an ancient ghost town once protected by a fortress, while odd stone boars or bulls—verracos—decorated nearby castles. Each of these sites had presented the possibility for an excursion and a chance to enjoy life in the open air but would have required a long day’s ride. Therefore, instead of visiting one of these, he had last taken them to Galiana’s Palace and the clypsedra, or water clock, which had been one of the wonders of the Moorish world. The water clock, which lay among the ruins of a Moorish palace, or alcazar, on the banks of the Tagus River, had once consisted of two large stone basins that filled and emptied themselves of water every lunar month in time with the waxing and waning of the moon. It was said that in 1085, some 50 years after the Christian re-conquest of Toledo by Alfonso VI, Alfonso VII, his grandson, curious to learn how the clock worked, had it taken apart. Unfortunately, his craftsmen, as skilled as they were, had been unable to reconstruct it. Pedro had presented the story to them as an allegory. “Sometimes,” he had said to his children, his blue eyes seemingly reflecting the late winter sky, “it’s best to accept things as they are, to enjoy them, to marvel at them, or to suffer the pains of their sorrows without question. However, at other times, it’s best to search for meaning.”

To accept things as they are, he thought to himself as they rode by the palatial ruin. His hallmark had always been his cheerful acceptance of life in its simplest and most sublime terms—with all its tragedy and all its enveloping mystery. Now, however, he, too, searched for meaning in the family’s recent tragic events and could find none.

* * *

As the members of the mule train rode to the brow of a rounded hill, a little beyond where they had once dismounted for their walk to Galiana’s Palace, Pedro reined in his mule. Here he turned to look back for the last time at the city of high walls which ascend and descend and enclose the small hill ringed by the river. On their right was the deeply carved bed of the Tagus still veiled in drifting mists and shadows. On their left were hills, rocks, and low scrub, all of which were half-shrouded in a dusty gray. The southern mountains under the early April sky were dimly visible in the distance. Toledo, its neutral tones broken only by shadows cast within its gigantic walls, its roofs dominated by the magnificent towers of its cathedral and its alcazar, was barely visible on the distant horizon. Without comment or command, Pedro took Diego and Lucia from their mules and lowered them to the ground. Catalina, however, asked to be left where she was. The children and their father then sat in the grass beside her litter while their train waited on the road above them.

The river was beautiful in the morning light with the sun glinting off the blue and yellow waters of the stream. Above them, just before the crest of the hill, Pedro and his children could see some crumbling walls. Below them, on the slope of the hill, were live oaks, ilex and olive trees. The olive trees’ delicate, silver leaves parted to reveal clusters of small, black fruit that had refused to be beaten from the branches at harvest. Pedro, who refused to look at the river, sat there bareheaded and motionless as he strained to see the home of his father-in-law on the hill beside the cathedral. He imagined that he could see both the house and its exterior balcony. As they gazed, Pedro, Diego and Lucia were enclosed in their own thoughts of Alonso’s home, the ancient city behind them, and all that they had lost, until Pedro decided that it was time to go. Again, without a word being spoken, for they had all learned to suffer in silence, Pedro placed the children upon their mules. Then, seemingly as an afterthought, he reached into one of the panniers that were slung across the croup of his mule, took out a leather-clad book, and returned to his seat on the hillside. With a final look at Toledo, which was but a smear on the distant horizon, and a last search for the balcony, he began to write.

The first week of April has been filled with such sadness that I have pushed aside my journal and can, now, only cobble it together from memory. It might seem meaningless that I do so. However, I follow the dictates of my teacher who made me believe that who we are and what we experience as a family—and as a people—are important and deserve to be preserved. The dates now seem unimportant. Suffice it to say that this has been the most tragic period of our lives.

He stood up, re-wrapped the journal in its oilskin, and, with a brief prayer rendered to St. Tobit, patron of travelers, said, “We must go.”

­

To Newer Lands

The plan, as Pedro had outlined in his journal before the family’s departure from Toledo, was for the family to follow the swift-flowing Tagus to Puebla del Mont. Here, they were to ascend the Rio Torcon to the village of Navahermosa. From this point, they were to follow an ancient track across the southward-looking slopes of the Sierra de Guadalupe, to Puerto de San Vicente, Logrosan, and, finally Merida. This track would take them overland through broken, mountainous country whose twisted trees and undergrowth of flowering gorze, blackberry and bilberry sheltered an assortment of wild animals. Here, the woods would be full of animals of every description even if they did not see them. It was this portion of the trip through the mountains of Central Spain that most concerned them. They would be at the mercy of the weather and of the bandits who preyed upon small parties such as theirs. At Merida, they would turn south towards Seville, and from there, they would reach the sea. With luck, and barring any unforeseen circumstances, they would reach the banks of the olive-bordered Guadalquivir River at Seville within three weeks.

Pedro had much on his mind as he let his beast select its own route up the forested trail. He followed the lead mules of their mule train as they slipped and stumbled in mire and muck from melting snow and on the stones and boulders that defined the thorny track. They were following a narrow valley of wood and cork trees with small villages scattered here and there along the way.

* * *

As they passed their days in travel Pedro worried abut what lay ahead. Although there were ventas, or inns, along much of the route, it was impossible to find one that provided both board and lodging. Despite the fact that the inns were filthy, especially the kitchens, which belched thick, black smoke, Pedro and his family continued to stay in them when the opportunity presented itself, for their only other recourse was to set up housekeeping in the fields. The general good appearance of the family often resulted in their being given the best room, but, although they often had the room to themselves, the children’s parents refused to allow them to sleep on the beds, which were little more than lumpy quilts infested with fleas and bedbugs. Instead, and in a guestroom with a chamber pot as their only luxury, they slept on mud floors and on bedding that they carried with them. While the family was accommodated within the inns, however, their muleteers, in the rude manner of the day, slept in the stables on nothing but the panniers and the coverings of their mules all thrown in a heap.

Although the initial portion of their trip was not very difficult, Catalina and Pedro had suffered a catastrophic blow in the deaths of their two children and of their nephew and would have had to be harder than diamonds not to have been brought to their knees. As a wife, aunt, and mother, Catalina had been vitally stricken and was to wear mourning much of her life. As for Pedro, the wound would always be there. But suffering is the essence of being Spanish, and rest a commodity they could ill afford.

For the children, at least, the journey provided distraction. Sleeping each night in a different place and sharing a room and candle with their parents as they had at their home in Carmena, made the trip seem like a grand adventure. That sense of adventure ended when they arrived at the forest.

* * *

Generally, the mountains of Spain have a harsh and lonely appearance. Many are rough, craggy, steeply sloped and forbidding. They have surprisingly few trees and are very sparsely populated. Mercifully, the mountains, or monts, through which the Robledos traveled were small and covered with trees. Although they were also sparsely settled, they served as common pasturage for village cooperatives for the small and infrequent hamlets, which the family came across. However, the Robledos sometimes rode for a whole day without seeing a living creature, except perhaps a cork-stripper with his long-handled hatchet cutting long, oblong sections of bark from the bottom of a tree.

One evening, as it was approaching dark, Pedro and his muletrain spied an inn beside a sluggish creek. They decided to make their lodging there, but the inn was full. The last room had been sold to an odd gentleman, the innkeeper told them, who appeared to be a ‘Romero,’ one of those pilgrims who had gained his name by traveling from the Western Empire (Roman) through the Eastern Empire (Byzantine) on his way to the Holy Land. This man in question, however, was on his way to Santiago de Compostella and he was standing in the courtyard.

The gentleman, a shabby-looking man in what appeared to be penitent’s garb, was standing ankle-deep in mud in his trail-worn sandals. His clothing was most strange. He wore a rude cloak of the coarsest cloth, a short cape, and a flexible hat, and carried a staff to which he had attached a calabaza, or gourd, containing the food he ate. His name, he told them, was Teodore del Torre and he was not actually a pilgrim. “I wear these clothes only to deter thieves on the road,” he said. And his ruse had apparently worked, for he still had all he had come with, which was to say—nothing. Nothing, that is, but a worn book regarding heraldry.

“I’ll be honored to share my room with you,” the strange man said, “and the senora and children can share my bed. It will be a good arrangement,” he said with enthusiasm. “All I ask is that you share the food you’ve brought, for I’ve not come with any.”

The arrangement was not to Pedro’s liking, but he agreed, knowing that Catalina on this night, at least, had to sleep in a bed. The five of them entered the inn and drew up chairs at a rude table that stood near the door. They sat at the table inspecting the hare, which the ventore had placed before them, sniffing at wine stinking of hide and pitch being poured from a ragged goatskin into stone cups, and speaking about this and that. Pedro’s decided to keep the man busy in conversation through the night, leaving the room and bed to Catalina and the children. This appeared to be of no difficulty for Teodore was full of talk. He was planning to submit a petition to become an hidalgo,1 he said, and he was busy designing a coat of arms complete with quartering, crowns and coronets of rank.

“It’s beautiful,” Pedro said of the drawing placed before them expressing more enthusiasm than he felt, “but how does it relate to your name or to your house?”

“The tower, of course, is for Torre,” the man said, “and the mountain is symbolic of my mother’s name which is Montes. This is a little ray of sunshine,” he said, pointing to a yellow slash mark on his drawing, “and the horse is just because I like horses.

“In reality,” he told the family, “my father’s name is Rodriguez, but how does one draw it? The world is full of Rodriguezes,” he said with disdain. “Descendant of Rodrigo! What’s that? I might as well be a Perez, or a Ruiz, or a Martinez . . . a descendant of Pero, Ruy, or Martin . . . one can’t draw those either!”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Pedro said, while holding the drawing up to the candle light and examining the document. “I wouldn’t give that up too quickly, Senor. For example, Martin, or Martinus, derives from Mars or Martis, the Roman god of fertility and war. And, ultimately, Martis derives from the root ‘mar’ which means ‘gleam.’ One could certainly use that. Perhaps you could further search your origins. There’s a Martinez in every wood pile!”

The man looked at him reviewing his red hair and beard and the blue of his eyes in an attempt to determine with whom among their ancestors to place him. Was he Celt, Iberian, Roman or was he one of those Visigoths with their strange un-Spanish names?

“And your name is Robledo, is that right?” the strange man asked with deliberation, a wry smile sliding across his face. “At least that’s what the ventore told me,” he said as though expecting a denial.

“Yes, Robledo. Pedro Robledo,” he responded while looking at Catalina.

“And your father?” the traveler asked, his open mouth revealing acorn stained teeth. “Of what name may we give him?”

“Alejo,” Pedro said, while working at the carcass of their hare with his bare hands.

“Ah. Alejo . . . Alejandro. That’s Greek, you know?”

“Yes,” Pedro responded. “The derivation’s Greek, but we’re Spaniards like yourself.”

“Ro-ble-do,” he said again, drawing out the syllables. “Oak grove, isn’t that what it means? That’s very different from most names and much better than Rodriguez.”

“Thank you,” Pedro responded, knowing that this man now knew more about him than he had cared to share. “Perhaps it’s a place name like Robledo de Chavela or Robledo del Buey.”

“Perhaps,” the man responded while tearing a leg off the rabbit they were eating. “But is it not also like Carvajal, which means ‘oak field,’ or even Zarate, an Arabic word which means essentially the same thing?”

Pedro said nothing, and the man seemed not to notice as he continued with his naming.

“My mother—God rest her soul—said that I should have been a Marquez for my ambitions to become a marquis,” the man continued, his thin lips working but silent. “But my father reminded her that the name may also designate one who works as a servant in house of a marquis. He judged me to be one of the latter,” he said, demonstrating that he could still laugh at himself. “You know, Robledo,” the man went on while requesting another cup of wine. “I would have preferred to have been named Bustillo, or Jaramillo, or Losada, or even Serrano. Preferred to have been named for a pasture for bullocks, a field of orach, an area paved with flagstones, or one who lives on a saw-toothed mountain.”

“Or how about Hinojosa, Vasquez, or Pedroso?” asked Pedro, growing weary of the name game. “A field of fennel, a shepherd, or a place of stones could also be drawn. Those are strong names which conjure up pictures of glory . . . although de hinojos could also refer to kneeling.”

“And you could draw them?” the odd man questioned.

“And you could draw them,” Pedro responded.

Senor Torre and Pedro stood as Catalina excused herself from the table to take the children, Diego and Lucia, and retire to their room. As the man stood there speaking to Catalina who looked pale and worn from their day of travel, Pedro had his first opportunity to really examine him. Pedro made him out to be about 40-years-old, perhaps no older than himself, a serious man of medium stature, earnest but full of pretensions. His pride, he had said, was in being a gentleman and a Catholic, a gentleman as a descendant of those who had re-won the land from the Moors, and a Catholic, in sharp distinction to the New Christians of Moorish blood. He demonstrated the incredible combination of poverty and pride, which, in Pedro’s mind, were so characteristically Castilian. He had nothing, yet he conducted himself with such a comely grace that one unacquainted with him would have taken him for the kinsman of a count. He lived a life of semi-starvation, however, sharing the bread of travelers such as Pedro, probably inhabiting a house of indescribable poverty and squalor and just surviving. Yet here he was with his cloak and his staff, searching for a sword and speaking grandly of his honor and of the estates he would obtain once he became an hidalgo.

After kissing Catalina’s hand and bidding her a good night, the odd man returned to the table in front of the open door that he shared with Pedro. There, they continued their review of Iberian patronymics, place names, and ornamentals from Arechuleta to Zaldivar.

“You’ll notice,” the odd man said, “that neither of us spoke of Herrera or Ferrer, the only two names I’m aware of which designate an occupation.”

“Well there’s Varela, also,” Pedro replied, “even if it is a nickname. It designates a keeper of animals and the rod with which he works.”

“Ah Senor Robledo,” the odd man said, his eyes glazing over from his third cup of wine. “There you have it! If I were to be named Varela, it would be for the varra which I carried as a symbol of my office, or, more importantly, for the rod I take to bed.”

They both laughed at this latter designation, and Pedro reconciled himself to the fact that it was going to be a long night.

* * *

The mule train carrying Pedro, Catalina, and the children rode through a sunlit forest amid fragrant gray shrubs with, here and there, massive boulders draped in luminous foliage. They continued in shadowed silence as they listened for the sounds of horsemen, not knowing who, if anyone, might be pursuing them. However, the only sound they heard was the creak of leather against leather and the heavy breathing of their beasts as they plodded the flinty paths.

After they left the forest, the valley widened and became lush and more fertile. The vale and hillsides, which were awakening from winter’s sleep, were replete with fruit trees now coming to bud. After a day of travel along the ridge of this valley, the mule train crowned the top of a hill in brilliant sunshine, and they could see the village of Punto Llano that lay in a green hollow below them. The houses, which gave the appearance of ancient rocks thrown together under a blazing sun, were shuttered and the doors, over which small family shields had been carved, were locked. Not a soul was to be seen, although the village reeked of tannic acid from cork bark, which was boiling in unattended vats. A lone cow, strangely hobbled by a rope tied to its horns and to one leg, and a small herd of goats wandered in the fields alone, their neck bells ringing in the stillness.

The Robledo party searched the village and could find no one until they came upon an old woman hiding in a hayloft. The woman, whom Pedro referred to as “a woman with a hundred weight of years”—that is a centenarian—told them that the village had been attacked by a group of bandits who had driven off their sheep. Although she was only armed with a thick staff made from the wood of the holly, she had refused to leave with the villagers. The villagers, she told them, were hiding in the hills and would return by nightfall. Although the Robledos were reluctant to leave her there, she insisted they do so, and they hurried away.

Below the village of Punto Llano, the Robledos were overtaken by a small party of two families who, following the same road, were coming along behind them. They were, they said, escaping the village they had left behind and asked to join the Robledos for the trip to Merida. Two of the men in this party carried matchlocks with which to protect themselves. With the safety provided by numbers and with the worn but serviceable arms the party carried, they felt a safe passage would be assured.

From Punto Llano they rode to Logrosan and then down a wide valley, generally following the course of the Rio Ruecas. This route took them through Medellin, formerly the home of Hernando Cortes who had opened the West Indies to colonization. In a bleak landscape commanded by a low hill, they found a crumbling castle with nothing to protect but a string of poor houses fronting a filthy street. Although Cortes had brought the riches of the Aztec Empire to the country of his birth, little of it had remained there, and none of it had stuck to his poor village of Medellin.

From Medellin to Merida was a fine journey of eight days through hills of gray boulders, regal stands of majestic pines, and enormous flocks of partridges, quail, and doves that filled each afternoon’s sky.

* * *

* *

Merida was an ancient city. The Romans, who were later to establish it as the capital of their vast and powerful province of Lusitania, had, in 25 BCE, founded it as Augusta Emerita (Augustus’ Veteran Colony). These were the meritorious veterans of his fifth and tenth legions that had asked to retire from active service and take farms in the area.

The ride was beautiful. Now and then, the travelers saw an ancient noria or hydraulic water wheel with buckets attached. Burros were pulling them around. There were frequent rectangular storage bins of stone or wood, raised off the ground to keep the grain away from rodents. They also found along the trail, shrines and holy places, cowled with a mantle of stone and looking very much like enormous animal burrows. Occasionally, they came across ancient walls and the traces of an ancient Roman road, but, as they neared the city, Roman roads appeared more frequently.

They may have known that in the early history of the church, a young girl, St. Eulalia, the celebrated virgin-martyr of Spain, had, by the use of these roads, trudged into Merida eager for martyrdom. During the Diocletian persecutions (c 304 AD), she had presented herself to the judge, Dacian, and had reproached him for attempting to destroy souls by compelling them to renounce what she considered to be the one true God. Dacian at first tried to flatter and bribe her into withdrawing her words and into observing the edicts. He then threatened her, showing her instruments of torture, and saying, “These you shall escape if you will but touch a little salt and incense with the tip of your finger.” Instead of acceding to his wishes, however, she trampled on the cake that was being laid for the sacrifice, and spat on the judge. Thereupon, two executioners tore at her body with iron hooks, and lighted torches were applied to her wounds. The fire caught her hair and she was burned alive. Legend has it that, following her death, her spirit, as a white dove, flew out of her mouth and soared into heaven.

The Robledo party also saw Roman ruins, including an immense circus formerly seating 30,000 people, and an amphitheater of 14,000 seats. They eventually came upon the Milagros Aqueduct, made of stones shaped and finished so skillfully as to require no mortar. Over 1,000 years old, at the time they saw it, it was doubtlessly good for a thousand more.

The Robledos also saw the 81-arched Roman bridge built across two arms of the wide valley of the Guadiana, a river celebrated for its underground course. The bridge, a half-mile long and the longest ever built in Spain, was repaired by the Visigoths in 686 AD. The members of the mule train knew that these structures were very old, and, although they did not identify them as Roman, they marveled at their construction.

On the morning of 14 April 1577, the mule train set off again with, as the Robledo journal states, “the sound of a distant bell carried by the wind.” They were unaccompanied now but on a road heavy with traffic. Along this road, which was little more than a muddy track scattered with rocks, there were relay stages for the royal mail placed approximately two to four leagues apart. By the use of these stages, the riders of the royal mail could cover up to 30 leagues a day. It was by the use of roads such as these that the king’s letters and special dispatches were carried from Madrid to Seville and to the principal towns of the kingdom. The Robledos made use of the corrals, draw wells and stone troughs of these stage stops to refresh their mules on two occasions, but otherwise stayed at various ventas or slept in makeshift shelters which they built for themselves along the road.

As they neared Almendralejo, they came upon a site recently abandoned by a band of gypsies usually called gitanos bravios, meaning wild or nomadic. The gypsies had camped alongside a stream in the valley below the road the mule train traveled. From the top of the trail, the members of the mule train could see a large wooden wash tub and piggin. They were to find these poorly constructed, their staves of white oak loose and rattly. There were, in addition, a number of other items strewn about which suggested that the encampment had been abandoned with some urgency. Although Pedro told his family that they would not have had anything to fear from these people in terms of their lives, he would have recommended that they remain clear of them because the gypsies were known for stealing and might have made off with their property.

“The gypsies,” Pedro told his family, “entered Europe about 150 years ago and at first posed as pilgrims. The tale they told,” Pedro said, “was that they were from ‘Little Egypt’ and were on a seven-year odyssey to pay for the sins of their forefathers who had turned away the Blessed Virgin with the Child Jesus. Now they’ve dropped this pose and call themselves Greek, but they refuse to go home. That, in fact, is the rub. They don’t have a home, nor do they seem to want one. Their language,” he continued, “is not like ours. It’s said to be Indian, although they’ve apparently lived in Hungary for many years. They’re intelligent and incredibly clever. They learn the language of the people among whom they travel so as to enter their homes, their stores, and their markets. I hate to make generalizations about a people for most often there are as many who don’t fit the label as those who do. However, in this instance, the generalizations are largely true. They make their living by telling fortunes and by predicting what will occur in a person’s life, and then, after they’ve lured you with their psychic ‘gifts,’ they steal from you. Women who’ve gone among them—my mother included—have even had pieces of their dresses cut off.

“When they first entered our country,” he continued, mopping his brow with a well-used linen, “they were given offers of safe conduct and were even provided with alms. However, it wasn’t long before they, and the people with whom they ran, were being paid to stay away.2 It’s unfortunate,” he said with a shrug, “for they have skills as smiths, musicians, and soldiers. However, they’re not to be trusted. No,” he repeated, “best to stay clear of them. We may camp here now that they’re gone, but, should they return for their washtub or these other things, we’ll abandon this camp.”

They took the camp the gypsies had deserted and Catalina, who had begun to brighten in her general demeanor, made use of the tub to disinfect the few items of clothing they had found, some of which fit the children. As she worked at her washtub, she assured herself that every fold and seam was thoroughly scrubbed in the boiling water. Looking over their encampment as the sun slowly sank behind the valley’s western wall, she examined the sky and watched a bird circling at great height in the cloudless heavens. There was something about the evening, perhaps the color of the light as it filtered through the pines, that reminded her of home. She thought back to the bathing time they had been forced to keep secret and to a conversation she had had with Pedro.

_____________

It was at their home in Carmena and she had been helping Pedro as he secured their house prior to taking their forbidden baths. How was one to deal with such a concept, that warm baths were illegal? These were not ritual baths or baths of purification such as those that must be taken in the water of a rushing stream. These were only baths which created and intensified a sense of cleanliness and self-respect and the Cortes had decreed them illegal!

Surely, Catalina had insisted to anyone who would listen, that law of 1567 was intended for the Moriscos—the name given to converted Moors—and had nothing to do with them. Some of these followers of Mohammed were still wearing their shapeless pants, turbans, and white linen trappings, were still speaking Arabic, and were probably still Muslims beneath their forced conversions. The Moriscos were calling attention to themselves, she feared, and, like the dreaded gypsies, might not survive until this law, as with most laws in Spain, became a dead letter. In any event, she had insisted, if any Spaniard followed these insane laws, citizens could easily revert to a time when it was illegal to sit on the wall of a house and dangle one’s feet, or to lead an animal to water by chains. Clothes left hanging outside their home might still be confiscated, but no one was going to decree that here behind her own walls she could not give her children a bath!

Pedro and Catalina talked as they completed preparations for the family’s bathtime.

“‘I’m glad she’s gone,” Catalina said, in reference to their housekeeper, Ama. “God help me, Pero there are times when she drives me crazy, absolutely crazy,” she added, displaying the frustration she experienced at dealing with the 12-year-old.

“What’d she do now?” Pedro asked, steeling himself to hear a new absurdity while taking a caldron of water from the wrought iron rod of their stone hearth, the floor of which extended into their firelit room. He held it by its bail, placed it on top of an old hearth stool whose seat had been blackened by similar objects, and replaced it with another as she had continued with her lamentations.

“Oh the things she comes up with!” Catalina had said while wrapping her hair in a turban, her auburn curls revealed at its edge. “The things she tells the children, Pero,” she said. “She scares them half to death. Last week she told them that this past fall while she was helping us pick corn from the fields below the walls, she saw a person’s shadow without its head! Can you even imagine that, Pero?” she had asked in frustration. “A person’s shadow without its head? She told them that her grandmother had told her that if a person sees her shadow without its head on the seventh day of the autumn festival, that she’ll die during the year. Then, later, she told me that it wasn’t her own shadow she’d seen, but someone else’s . . . you know . . . in that way she has of speaking as though she has a secret known only to herself. Porquerias, Pero, that’s all her secrets are. Useless trifles! I know that she wanted me to ask whose shadow she’d seen, but I refused. I wasn’t going to encourage her foolishness. Thank God, she went to see her mother and won’t be back till Tuesday. Anyhow, we couldn’t be taking our baths outside if she was here.”

Ama, Catalina’s housekeeper, was a soot-splattered young urchin whom Catalina’s father had rescued from the mills where she had worked with her mother amid the stale and sour smell of millions of silkworms. Catalina and Pedro had spoken with Ama’s mother who seemed to be a sensible woman, but this ancient grandmother whom they had yet to meet, was constantly filling Ama’s head with nonsense.

Catalina had tried to tame her—this mysterious and wild thing—providing clothing and shoes for her as replacements for the rags that she wore. But Ama refused to be tamed. She reluctantly wore the clothes they provided, but refused to wear the shoes which remained hidden beneath her bed. Catalina had wondered what had happened to them and had discovered them while searching for one of Luis’s toys.

The shoes, alpargatas of the Basque region, tiny sandals of coarse canvas soled with hemp, just sat there, idle and abandoned, their toes curling toward the ceiling. There, too, hidden beneath her bed, were a tattered blanket, a sack of dried bread, several ears of corn, and, unaccountably, what appeared to be weeds from their garden—the latter with tufted roots the soil of which was still attached. Catalina recalled looking around her uncomfortably as she had halted her search, feeling that she had invaded a private space, the coop of a starving and frightened chicken. She left the items where they lay and retreated, never to speak of them to Ama, and, although Ama continued to sleep beneath the bed they provided, she spent most weekends with her own family, which gave Catalina a brief but needed respite from her.

Pedro, of course, was first as he walked across the cold stones with his final pail of water. Now clad in a sheet and clutching a bar of Neapolitan soap (made of wheat bran, milk of poppies, goat’s milk, marrow of deer, bitter almonds and sugar), he moved quickly across the cold stones of the plazuela. Then, without taking off his mantle, which he wore as a barber’s cape that encircled both shoulders, he sat in the water that he had poured for himself. His bath would be a short one, for there were two to go.

Diego and Luis were next, and their baths were also short as they sat in the water used by their father and washed with the soap and rag he had provided them. However, Diego, at least, seemed more interested in cleaning the beautiful white stone he had brought with him than caring for his own needs. Catalina had admonished the boys to wash here and there while she poured water over them with a copper cup. Diego though, continued to play with the stone he had found, noting that, with a cross seemingly etched across one of its surfaces, it looked like a cruzado. His father had told him that a white stone meant good luck and that this was a stone to cherish. Clutching it beneath the sheet his mother had provided him after the bath, he took the stone with him as he later ran into the house.

With their basin newly filled, and in the shadowed light of their open plazuela, Catalina placed Lucia and Ana within the water. Then, uncharacteristically, for she was excessively modest, she kicked off her alpargatas, let her robe slip from her slim, white shoulders and stepped in behind them.

Their bath, which now contained angel water, was a special treat. The angel water was a cosmetic made from the distillation of red and white roses, trefoil, red poppies, lavender root, honeysuckle, orange blossoms, white lilies, thyme, carnations and orange rinds which the three of them had made during the previous summer. It was a bath within which to soak. Therefore, with their knees tucked neatly beneath their chins, and with the warmth of bared flesh connecting them as they pressed one against another, they observed a small group of swifts and black martins as they flew in tight semicircles far above their heads. Then, with the flecks of orange rinds floating lazily about them, they watched as the late afternoon sun sank behind the wall of their plazuela.

_____________

_____________

Was that only a week ago? Catalina thought. Standing alone in the small clearing, she gazed past their mules tethered beyond the small fire of their encampment, and into the shadows of the forested slopes. The sky continued to lose its light and she again became closed off and enveloped in darkness.

* * *

Their journey continued as they rode through the mountains of Toledo, through Almendralejo, Zafra, and Fuente de Cantos. Days later, as they rode by the stone markers of the Castilian/Andalusian border, Pedro told the members of his mule train that many hundreds of years before, these rich pasturelands had been stud farms for the breeding of cavalry horses. Although the number of beautiful Arab-bred Andalusians in the valley was now greatly diminished, the rich pasturelands remained. And on 23 April 1577, through a forest of olive, orange, and cypress trees which spread out before them, they arrived at the ‘City of Reflections.’ They had been on the road for 20 days. This was several days longer than they had anticipated. However, the muleteers had found Catalina’s swinging litter, the era’s utmost form of comfort, extremely cumbersome, bumping and lurching on the difficult tracks. The Robledos promised themselves that should they be required to make a similar trip in the future, each member of the family would be mounted on his or her own mule.

The Robledos had planned to arrive in Seville for the May sailing of the merchant fleet from that city to Vera Cruz. Prior to 1492, Spain’s trade center had resided in Catalonia on the Mediterranean coast, with Barcelona being the richest and most celebrated port in the world. However, with the discovery of America, trade switched from Catalonia to Seville leaving Catalan merchants and vessels high and dry. Now, Seville and Vera Cruz held the monopolies for all traffic with the West Indies. Seville was Spain’s assigned point of departure, while Vera Cruz was the only seaport through which both New Spain and the other parts of Spanish America got their materials. The Robledos knew there would be a second sailing in September. This second fleet, known as the Terra Firma,3 would be going to Porto Bello on the Isthmus of Panama. After crossing the Isthmus, the cargo of the Terra Firma vessels would be placed upon ships bound for trade in the South Sea. This, however, was not the Robledos’ destination. They were going to Vera Cruz.

* * *

In 1577, Seville, formerly the site of the small Roman acropolis of Hispalis, and now a city of 150,000 inhabitants, was Spain’s largest city. It was composed of two urban centers on either bank of the Guadalquivir River linked by a pontoon bridge. Seville was on the east bank while Triana, a gitaneria or home to a colony of gypsies, was on the west. Gigantic walls, which forced the meandering river into a new channel, separated the two sections of the city. The walls, which had served to bring the river closer to the city, also served as quays, which facilitated the rigging and provisioning of ships. Together, the two cities reflected the two main motivations for overseas travel, religion and commerce.

The mark of Christianity was clearly demonstrated by the number and size of Seville’s religious buildings. These included many monasteries and convents, innumerable churches, chapels, and oratorios, and Seville’s grand cathedral. Cheek by jowl with these were Seville’s Customs’ House, its mint, its marvelous Merchants’ Hall (a magnificent structure of stone and brick close to the cathedral), and its House of Trade, or Casa de Contratacion. These represented Seville’s position as a financial hub for Spain and New Spain. With shopkeepers from England, Flanders, France, Greece, Italy, and Portugal, it was a veritable Babel. These two entities, religion and commerce, dominated life in Seville in the late 16th century, and it was this world in which the Robledos immersed themselves while awaiting departure.

The city was indeed a marvel. As the only repository for all exchange and business with the West Indies, it was literally bursting at the seams. As Spain’s American colonies had only a small number of industries apart from the development of mineral deposits and certain unrefined resources, they were reliant upon imports from Europe for a considerable variety of goods. With Seville’s warehouses bulging, the overflow lay on the strand waiting for inspection. The Robledos had arrived too late to observe the off-loading of precious metals coming from the West Indies, but, they were told that there had been 257 cartloads of silver, gold and pearls of great value.4 Since there was no room within the Casa de Contratacion, large quantities of bar gold and chests full of precious metals remained outside the building in its well-guarded courtyard. These, as well as cocoa, cochineal, leather and skins, sugar, and timber all coming from the West Indies were piled in heaps across the strand. Here, among an incredible array of goods, the Robledos placed their baggage to be watched over by their muleteers.

The strand, or arenal, on which cargo was stored, had the appearance of a colorful and unending bazaar that stretched from the battlement enclosing the city to the left bank of the Guadalquivir River. It was said that one could find bird’s milk here if one wished to have it. There were Moorish azulejos, the distinctive blue and green picture tiles dating from the 14th century that were the preferred decoration for the finest palaces and monasteries. There were hats and caps, shirts and socks, cloth, ironware, oil, silk, soap, tools, wine, and even mercury, the latter destined for the mines of New Spain where it was to be used in the extraction of silver. The cargoes of many foreign nations also littered the strand. The presence of these foreign ships and their cargoes was largely due to the poor quality of cloth then available in Spain and New Spain, and an insufficient quantity of a whole range of exports which might have been provided by Spain itself. Ships had come from Rouen and St. Malo loaded with cloth from Normandy. Italian ships brought fine brocades, while ships from the German cities of Hamburg and Lubek carried lumber and hempen cord and ropes, each essential in the construction of ships. Also on the strand were the foodstuffs needed for the ocean passage. For the three-month voyage (though actually the duration was uncertain and could be longer) the novice sailors would need biscuits and dried meat, cheese, butter, rice, beans, vinegar, oil, salted cod and herring, fruits, vegetables, and red wine. Among the inviting aromas of stews and garlic, one could find the world on the strand.

* * *

On the morning following their arrival, Pedro donned his ‘city clothes’ in preparation for his excursion into the city. His clothing, much of which had been provided him by his father-in-law, consisted of a tight-fitting jacket, with a high stiff collar, short pantaloons, stockings, and a classic Spanish cape. Although the clothes fit him well, except for the pantaloons, which were decidedly too short for him, he was uneasy in them. His well-shaped legs and average height body might have been appropriate to elegant suits and the finest clothes. Although he was a man who preferred wearing clothing for the road, this dress was required for a man of distinction. Pedro, Diego and their agent, Enrique Enriquez, who was to assist them in gaining passage, then set out on their walk to the commercial center of the city.

Their agent’s home and place of business, Catalina’s father had told them, were on the Calle de la Frontera near the tower of St. Mary (formerly known as ‘La Giralda’ or ‘The Weathervane’). This was a 20-story bell tower—now the steeple of the cathedral—built as the minaret for the ancient Grand Mosque that had hugged the walls of the alcazar in the old aljama or Jewish Quarter of the city. Because of the prominence of the tower which rose more than 300 feet above the city’s walls, Pedro and his family had used it as a beacon in their search for their agent’s home.5

After leaving their agent’s house and walking with him through a beautiful walled-in garden cloister at the cathedral, they visited the gradas. These were the steps that led to the Orangery, the ruins of an old mosque that flanked the north side of the Victory-topped cathedral, the third largest church in the world. Here, on the worn steps, the business of arranging overseas travel and trade was being conducted.

On the steps, appearing muy donoso, and perfumed at that, were merchants, ship-owners, bankers and courtiers dressed in short capes, hats with plumes of many colors and with daggers hanging at their sides. They were discussing the value of gold and silver, rates of interest and exchange and the cost of commodities in the West Indies.

Also on the steps, and moving in and out of the milling crowd, were beautifully dressed women carrying embroidered handbags and wearing high-heeled shoes. They were attired in long-sleeved gowns of every color and either high-collared cloaks, vast sleeveless capes, or mantas of tulle or transparent silk which they drew across their faces to reveal just one eye. Diego watched in fascination as these women drifted in and out of the crowd. Occasionally, he could see a cheek painted with scarlet, lips covered with a thin layer of wax to make them gleam, or a long, white, delicate hand to which its owner had applied either a special almond paste, an ointment made from bacon fat, or vinagrillo (vinegar water), a cosmetic lotion composed of vinegar, eggs, sweet limes and honey. And the scent of these women in the blaze of the Andalusian sun was overwhelming, for their maids, in droplets projected between beautiful white teeth, had spat ambergris, rosewater, and civet upon them.

It was at the Orangery that Pedro got his first glimpse of the manner in which the overseas business was conducted. He felt like a small fish in a pond of piranhas and wondered if he could learn to swim among them. This was not his way of doing business and the cacophony and odors he experienced were overwhelming. However, he could not escape Seville yet, for his agent told him that he had to meet with officials at the Casa de la Contratacion. They would obtain information regarding his character and confirm his license to travel overseas. His agent and his agent’s wife were to be his only witnesses.

* * *

“They’ll be asking you many questions, Senor Robledo,” his agent said as they stood in the shade of one of the cathedral’s soaring portals. “There’ll be questions regarding your age, your community of residence, your marriage, the legitimacy of your children and whether either of them is committed to a religious order or to marriage. They’ll want to have information regarding your parents and those of Senora Robledo, whether you’re an old or a new Christian, everything. You’re incredibly fortunate in one regard, at least,” he said. “The prohibition against emigration was just this year suspended. And then we can hope that they’ll not have been instructed to detain you, and that your answers mirror those you provided when you made your initial petition—the one you made three years ago. Are your circumstances the same?” he asked.

“No,” Pedro responded. “Much has changed. The initial petition was made for my wife and for our four children, and also for my nephew, Luis, whom I raised as my own. Also, we were going to live with my cousins, Miguel de Sandoval and Catalina Sanchez who were residents of Mexico. My cousin Miguel, God rest his soul, died from a fall from his horse, and his wife returned here. And you know of my children and of Luis,” he said sadly. “Things have changed enormously, Senor Enriquez. The initial petition was made to provide us with a back-up plan. Now we’re forced to go.”

“I was sorry to hear of your children, don Pedro,” his agent responded while crossing himself with his right hand. “Your loss is beyond measure. However, I’m sure they’re in a better place, God save and keep them,” he added in a guarded tone while he persisted with the task at hand. “Regarding the license, don Pedro,” he continued. “We’ll be truthful, but only as thorough as required, and it’ll be best not to have anyone else there whom they might question—if you know what I mean. You do know what I mean?” he asked while again hitching his short cape about his shoulders.

“Yes, I understand,” Pedro answered.

“Your wife and children might yet have to appear,” he said, “but perhaps our testimony will be sufficient. We’ll leave Diego in the garden. It can only be entered from the cathedral. Ordinarily, it’s closed off to the laity, but I’ve received permission for him to stay there.”

* * *

Diego would have preferred to be left on the gradas where he could have watched the people on the steps. Instead, he now sat in a little sunken garden at a corner of the cloister where shrubs and trees bordered a covered walk-way that ran along the inside walls. The little garden was cool and well-hidden, sheltered by copious orange trees and tall, downy palms motionless in the still air. The floor of the recessed garden was set with small, flat stones and ringed with a tangle of roses and stork’s bill, red and white. The roses of this early spring perfumed the air and the splash of water into a moss-green pool made the speech of those around him unintelligible except for that of a small group of novitiates who were at his elbow.

Black-robed men in twos and threes made a circuit of the cloister. Each of these men was dressed in a long black tunic with winged sleeves, belts, scapulas and hoods. The look of them reminded him of the priests at the cathedral in Toledo and of the priests’ procession up the stone corridor to his grandfather’s home. That walk, however, had been conducted at night and had been lit by candles. As Diego watched the priests, he, too, placed his hands before his face in the manner of rendering a prayer.

The novitiates—children, really—wore the dress of their order and were seated around their superior discussing the nature and most important qualities of prayer. “Prayer,” their superior said, “is an art to be learned, and may be one of four kinds: adoration, thanksgiving, penitence or petition.” They nodded in apparent understanding of his words and he continued. “Our practice of praying for the dead,” he said, “falls into the category of prayers of petition, and is based on our belief that those of our Church who have died, but not yet arrived at the Beatific Vision, the final destiny of the redeemed, can be helped by the prayers of those still alive.”

“Members of our Church only?” questioned one. “What of the others, Father?”

“Heaven is the dwelling place of God, and the angels,” their superior said, “and only His faithful disciples, members of our Church, will reign with Him in His glory. The rest? Well, they’re lost.”

“No matter their innocence, Father?”

“Well,” he responded, “if they have a positive disbelief in the Christian faith can they really be said to be innocent?” he asked of the children as he looked quizzically from one to another. “No, my sons,” he said with finality, “if they don’t believe in our Catholic faith, they’re infidels and can’t be saved.”

Diego listened to all of this and understood it as babble. Members of the Church? Beatific Vision? These were concepts that were beyond his comprehension. Leaving the sunken garden, he wandered into the cathedral and was overwhelmed by its majesty. He watched as others dipped the tips of their fingers into the holy font and did the same. He then sat in a pew beside a tier of votive candles and again assumed the posture of one in prayer.

He had been brought up a Catholic, and had only been introduced by osmosis to the secrets of his faith, for his family’s beliefs were, to a large extent, rules of life, rather than a creed. He knew but one prayer—The Lord’s Prayer—and he had no idea where among the four categories it belonged. He wondered whether he should have washed his hands before entering the cathedral, and thought how, at home, his parents’ one candle (“the candle of the Lord,” his mother pronounced it) would have been placed within a pitcher to conceal it from prying eyes.

His prayer was not one of those presented by the priest but was more in the form of a question. “Why? Why Ana and Luis?” he asked, as he began to sob quietly to himself, the tears of regret running down his cheeks. He could not reconcile himself to the fact that he had lived while they had died, and he would forever be haunted by the look in Ana’s eyes as she slipped from his grasp, for she too appeared to be asking a question: “Why Diego? Why?”

“I don’t know, Ana,” he said aloud, startling those who sat around him. ‘”Why did I let go?”

­

Who Does Not Venture Forth Does Not Cross the Sea

The Passage

The fleet within which the Robledos were to sail was made up of several dozen vessels, merchantmen, and armed galleons. These were berthed at the docks alongside the river where cargo was being loaded into their holds. One of these ships, the Morning Star, on which the Robledos had gained passage, was a fully rigged sailing vessel carrying broadsides of brass and iron pieces, both ship- and man-killers, some of great weight. On this ship, and on the many others that lined the stone quay, a representative of the Casa de la Contratacion was inspecting registros or bills of lading.

Also on board were commissioners from the Office of the Inquisition who arrived to see that no books forbidden by the Holy Office were smuggled aboard. Pedro had made a decision regarding the Holy Office and hoped it would serve him well. His fear of the Office had resulted in tragedy and he was no longer going to conduct himself as a fugitive, hiding in the shadows and living in fear. If the Office had been commanded to detain him, so be it. He would return to accept whatever fate was presented him. If not, however, he would conduct himself as would any free Spanish citizen.

Among the books given to Pedro by his father-in-law was The Works of Charles V which was bound in parchment. He had also received the libretto of a long musical work published that year which preserved several folk tunes, and two curious works about the Jews. The Holy Office apparently had no instructions regarding him. Since the possession of Jewish works even in translation might have exposed him to persecution, however, these were left with his agent. The additional literary works in Pedro’s possession were deemed not to contain anything contrary to good morals or to the Catholic faith. They were not among those written by heretical authors or listed in the Index of Prohibited Books. They were, therefore, not confiscated and with a payment of an obol, he was free to proceed.

* * *

Amid a chorus of pealing bells and the boom of cannons being fired as a salute from Seville’s beautiful alcazar, everyone massed on the banks of the Guadalquivir River to watch the ships put to sea. With the Robledos’ ship armed and outfitted, and with the last cask stored, the Morning Star slid into the irresistible current of the river and began its journey to the sea.

Traveling with the merchant fleet for the initial portion of the 20-league-trip to the mouth of the Guadalquivir were many fast and armed cruisers, the zabras, fragatas, and patajes of Spain’s Mediterranean fleet. These vessels, which could be rowed, were used for scouting and for pursuit. They were low in the water, faster, and hardier than were the bigger ships and would have less difficulty at the mouth of the river where beyond the roadstead, the protected place near the shore where ships could anchor, there was a syrtis, the name given by the ancients to shoals or sandbars in the sea. After successfully crossing the sandbar, which was now a fury of white water, the Mediterranean fleet turned south toward Cadiz and the transatlantic fleet entered the open sea.

The immediate plan was for the fleet to drop down to the Canaries, a group of 13 islands in the Atlantic Ocean about 60 miles off the coast of Northwest Africa. From there, they would be borne across the Atlantic Ocean to the West Indies by southwest trade winds. It was a voyage that had been accomplished many times. This passage, however, would prove to be anything but routine.

* * *

The Robledos, like the other passengers of the Morning Star, were appalled by the area below deck where they were to spend the next three months. Led down the ladder of an aft hatchway when they first boarded the vessel, they were escorted to a gloomy and grimy space between decks. Across this area was strewn a hopeless clutter of kegs and barrels which encroached upon their living space. Their living ‘quarters,’ such as they were, extended from the forehatch of their vessel to the stern immediately below the main deck. The Robledo journal perhaps best describes it:

Under the maindeck someone had built stalls for the horses of a previous passage. The manger in front is still packed with hay. On the other side of the ship are stalls for more horses, their feed mangers worn down from incessant rubbing. We put our baggage inside one of these and made it our home. I love horses, but I’m glad they’re not here!

Although theoretically cleaned, fumigated, and sweetened, their stall still held the strong scent of rot and mildew, of horse and unwashed bodies, and of the flux with which many of its previous passengers had been afflicted. Also in the hold were the vermin of its former occupants waiting in the dark, eager to move onto new hosts. In these dismal surroundings, the Robledos were placed with 30 other passengers, each adult of whom presented two square yards of skin upon which the vermin could graze, each child only slightly less.

The Vermin

Grazing upon the extensive fields of unwashed passengers, were fungi, viruses, fleas, bedbugs, body and head lice, ticks, bacteria, and itch mites. Some of these organisms carried diseases which could kill: fleas with bubonic plague, body lice with epidemic typhus, and ticks with encephalitis and other tick-borne diseases. And while the itch mites might not kill people, they caused such torture that many wished they had. The scabies mite, tunneling across the back of an afflicted person’s hand like a mole burrowing in a soggy field, used its skin-melting enzymes to help it invade to lay eggs. Their feces and saliva caused terrible itching that worsened when scratched. Itching from secondary lesions, which occurred predominantly upon the male genitals, between the fingers, on the lower buttocks, and about the areola of the breasts in women, was, unaccountably, most intense at night.

Ever-present was a species of rodent called a ‘black rat’ which, like the dreaded gypsies, had originally lived in India. These rats were skilled climbers and found it easy to both ascend and descend sailing ships by their mooring ropes. These creatures were the most hated and also the most feared for they carried plague. You could treat head lice with a shampoo of olive oil, but there was no defense against the plague.

The Passage

The habitable area of the Robledo family’s room was totally dark and had no ventilation. They had been told that their cargo in crates and casks would be placed in the hold and would not under any circumstances be available to them during their passage. Therefore, whatever they needed for the next three months had to be in this ‘room.’ It was suggested that they cleat their trunks to the floor to prevent their movement in heavy seas, but when the room was packed, no floor was visible. There was no place to sit and little to stand. There was only one solid layer of baggage, one piece upon the other. Pedro likened this to Dante’s hell, a horrible pit, shaped like a stall, deep in the bowels of their vessel. By placing bedding on top of their personal luggage, they attempted to establish a niche for themselves. Head to head, toe to toe, their hell seemed to have all nine circles.

* * *

By all accounts, the ocean passage of 12 weeks was a nightmare. It was a voyage that Pedro Robledo was to describe as “a seeming lifetime of tedium and vomitus.” The assault was immediate, with the wind blowing hard off the sea at their exit from the Guadalquivir. It went on blowing furiously as they beat toward the Canaries, one gale after another, more like December than May. Then, two days out of port, they encountered a violent storm and considered turning back. It was a day of disaster, Robledo wrote.

From sunset last night the wind grew quickly. It blew with severity, and the sea took on an ominous appearance. Soon we were pitching heavily and taking water over the rail. Crates and barrels began to rip loose from their lashings. The men and boys were required to work below deck, re-lashing them as well as we were able under desperate and dangerous conditions. The women and children were sent to the deck where the waters crashed over them. They had to hold on to whatever was available to keep from being swept into the sea. I told Catalina to stand with Lucia at the top of the ladder and not to enter the deck, but the crew would not allow them to remain there and required them also to go above.

Throughout the night the wind blew furiously. A severe wind and an uncertain sea. Awoke to much motion, swaying, continually to the plunging of the ship as it pitched and rolled in the heavy seas. If one could have seen us through a hole in the deck, one would have seen a mass of miserable humanity rising up on one side together, while those on the other side swung down. Lucia is suffering badly from seasickness. Last night she drank a little—threw up—then drank a little more.

It was as though the sea harbored monsters that sought to devour them. Mountainous waves surged like wild beasts while the winds crawled like living creatures through the sails. Decks trembled and quaked relentlessly testing the soundness of their craft. Some of the passengers gathered on deck, but their position there was unenviable. The water repeatedly broke over the railing, hurling sheets of soaring spray on to everyone who huddled there. They sat with their backs to this breaking water filled with cold and despair.

The night wore on, and the sea appeared higher than ever. It came over the rail in a solid sheet of green, curling water. Although their vessel was not taking much water through open seams, a great quantity of the deluge cascading across the overlying deck was finding its way below so that the floors were soon gushing in rivulets. Below decks, the water rushed over the ribs of the ship in a frightening manner. The men and boys worked a bucket brigade carrying full pails to the deck only to have the water blown back in their faces as they attempted to throw it into the wind.

“Thank God,” Robledo says in his journal some hours later, “the storm is waning. The waters are still monstrously high, but our vessel is not straining as badly as she was.” The initial storm was followed by an evening’s calm and a red-skied dawn that only warned that additional storms awaited them.

The first storm caused incredible damage, straining the seams of a number of the vessels and eventually sinking one. The doomed merchantman, whose seams had been opened, was leaking like a sieve, its well filling with water. Her captain had passed cables beneath her keel to support and strengthen her in a futile attempt to keep his ship from falling apart. Then, under the escort of an armed galleon, the waterlogged vessel made for the rock of Lisbon where it later sank in the harbor. The remainder of the badly strained vessels, some with fresh spars, caulking, cordage, and canvas, made repairs under rudder and continued.

Battered by contrary gales in an ocean pregnant with storms, the Morning Star, a three-masted vessel, seemed to be in imminent peril from ill winds and heavy seas. To add to the misery of the passengers (and some of the sailors, though most of them were able deep-water seamen), everyone was sick. Their symptoms of dizziness and cold sweats were followed by cyclic bouts of nausea and vomiting with incessant retching long after there was anything to lose. They felt better above deck, whatever the weather, and experienced the wind and rain there as blessings.

The passengers were required to remain on deck during most of the day while the ship was cleaned and rummaged and readied for the next bout of sickness that all knew would come. Unaccountably, the nausea seemed to subside with darkness, and sleep, too, brought blessed relief.

For the first few days they ate little—mostly biscuits and water—since they could not retain it. After a week of this sickness, during which many of the passengers spoke of killing themselves, they were able to eat slightly more. Lucia, though, could not ingest or retain the salted fish, carrots, potatoes, or any of the other solids available to her. Her world was made up of water, broth (which they made over the coals of a portable brazier such as that used in soldering), and dried fruit until this was exhausted.

Although more vulnerable to gunfire, the galleys had long keels in proportion to their beam. They rode lower in the water and were subject to less motion than were the merchantmen whose towering castles only exacerbated their rolling. In contrast to the galleys, the merchantmen, with shorter keels and broader beams, quaked and trembled, pitched and rolled in the peak and trough of every wave. Seemingly, the misery experienced by the passengers would not end—it could not end—until their ships were swamped or came apart. In the end, the passengers of the fleet were convinced their ships would kill them.

During the initial weeks of the voyage, the passengers huddled on deck as though in a stupor, captives of an unfriendly sea. They were crushed by the wretched conditions of their vessel and had the appearance of individuals who had been damned. Slowly, some began to recover only to be brought to nausea again by the next storm. Day after seemingly unending day, they sat or lay on the deck probably looking for an English or perhaps a French privateer to come and end their misery. None came, however, and their hell seemed to have become eternal.

* * *

For purposes of safety from attack, the ships attempted to maintain a spacing of a half-culverin shot of 300 yards between vessels. During the day, they were able to maintain this spacing without great effort, but at night, and often running before a storm, the fleet was scattered and at dawn had to be rejoined. Primarily, the members of the fleet were on the alert for three sea bandits, and it was possible that at least two of them would appear together.

The first of these bandits was the French Huguenot pirate, Jacques Soury. He had, in 1570, attacked a ship bound for Brazil. The captured passengers and crew of this ship had been dealt with most cruelly. Their heads had been split open. They had been bound and stabbed to death and then thrown into the sea. No less deadly were the English ‘sea dogs,’ Francis Drake, and his cousin, John Hawkins.1 The pirates were out there somewhere, of this the members of the transatlantic fleet were sure, and, although the Spaniards could not see them, absence of evidence was not evidence of absence. Francis Drake, for one, was famous for his ability to find the exact spot in an endless sea where he could seize a particularly desirable prize. Undoubtedly, he was at this moment lurking on the high seas searching for more treasure and slaves and perhaps for the members of the transatlantic fleet.

* * *

In addition to enduring the wretched condition of the seas which daily plagued them, the passengers of the fleet also suffered miserably from fouled water and spoiled food. Many of the casks and butts were leaking and what water remained in them was green with slime and foul-smelling. Having no means of replenishing their supply from onshore resources, they consequently set to wringing rainwater from hanging sheets to replace their spoiled stores.2

Their having no control over what was happening to them and their inability to escape their ordeal intensified the misery of the passengers. However, a small group did what they could to bring order to the chaos. They sectioned off a small corner of the cabin for use as a latrine and organized the collection of the night’s slops. They also helped to bring fresh water to those who were unable to rise from their beds. Although they could do nothing about their cramped and putrid quarters—the stench of which worsened daily—they urged that fouled bedding be cleaned and aired or even that it be thrown overboard. Eventually, however, the stench was so unbearable that a container in which incense was burned was put up—a botafumeiro de Sant’ Iago it was called—to dull the odor and fumigate the air.

* * *

Each morning, at first light, Lucia’s father would carry her to the open deck where she slipped in and out of consciousness. There he would cradle her racked body in his lap, and with his large cool hands attempt to soothe her distended stomach. Then, leaving her with Diego, who had become her guardian and nurse, he would return to their stall to retrieve his wife. This, unfortunately, became a daily routine, for Lucia was deathly ill. Whether the reason for this was seasickness, the unsanitary squalor, or simply an especially dangerous form of ‘ship’s fever,’ (typhus) which was then virtually worldwide, Pedro’s attempts to comfort Lucia seemed useless. He feared that if somehow their conditions did not improve, they would lose her.

While resting on deck, and with the ocean’s spray washing over them, Robledo told stories to his family as a way of relieving their wretched condition. He told them the story of the shepherd and of his flock of 300 whom the shepherd was trying to have ferried across a stream. This was a counting story with infinite repetitions and it soon outlived its usefulness.

However, an additional story, and one he told more often, was the legend of the generous and noble Ulysses and the tale of his wanderings. This timeless story of man’s struggle against great odds seemed to fit the occasion. Recited from memory, for the book was in the hold and unavailable to him, the beginning and end of the narrative remained the same. However, there was great variation in his narration of the remainder. In Pedro’s version, Ulysses visited the land of the one-eyed giant, the Cyclops, the Lotus-Eaters, and the Kingdom of the Dead. He encountered Scylla and the Sirens and participated in the contest with the great bow. The differences in his telling were that Pedro focused on Ithaca, and, when alone with Diego, on the much-beloved Telemachus, to whom Ulysses had left his scepter and his kingdom. “And you, Diego,” he would say in his great, sonorous voice, “are my Telemachus. We follow knowledge like a star sinking below the horizon. Remember Diego,” he would add, his light blue eyes alive with excitement, “what we seek is a newer world, perhaps that of the fabled Sobradisa or Micomicon, and when we find it, it will be peaceful and grand! It’s out there somewhere, Diego, beyond the horizon. We may not find it this year, in the next ten years, or perhaps in my lifetime. But it will be found. And when it is, Diego, you must hold on to it for you and for your children. Remember,” he stated emphatically, “that the quest is as important as the discovery. To strive, to seek, to find and not to yield is our motto. If, in our quest, we don’t find it, you must keep looking, for when I’m gone, Diego, your work will be mine.”

* * *

The nights, Pedro wrote, were the most difficult. There was never a time when everyone in the cabin shared the same period of sleep. In his quarters in the family’s minuscule living space, he would lie holding his wife spoon-like around her waist. There, amid the sounds of children crying, and of people coughing, moaning, and retching in new despair, Pedro awaited a new tomorrow. During these periods from sunset to dawn, although surrounded by a horde of humanity, he experienced profound bouts of loneliness. As he lay in the near-dark watching the cabin’s lone candle-lamp swing in the creaking night, he thought of his beloved Carmena, his children, Ana and Luis, and how Ana, especially, the quickest of the four children, would have been full of questions.

More often, though, when the weather allowed, he returned to the main deck after his family fell asleep. Here, from the high poop or from the taffrail of the embattled ship, he would watch the lanterns of the other vessels, the stars, and the cold, black waves like watered camlet as they flowed around his ship in the wake of its passage. Sometimes he thought he could see light coming from deep beneath the ocean’s waves and wondered what this could be. More often, as the ship plowed through the peak and trough of every wave, he observed the bioluminescence of the tiny sea animals displaced by its wake. Perhaps the motion of the vessel as it plowed through the sea provided these sea creatures with the energy required to make this light, he thought to himself. He connected this with the round flash of St. Erasmus’s light3 that is seen around the masts of ships in a thunderstorm, although he did not know what caused either of these phenomena. Leaning on the taffrail at the stern of the ship, he often stood with his arms extended before him in the form of a cross. In this manner, he could gauge the hour by the position of the horn of Ursa Minor in relation to his arms as time passed before him. These considerations provided him with diversions until sleep came.

* * *

And so it went as, day after day, Spain’s Atlantic fleet beat toward the West Indies. Coming together by day and dispersing at night, the individuals in these floating barracks watched for Drake and Hawkins and now, on the 92nd day, began looking for land.

Land

Lucia, through sunken eyes, now rimmed in black, saw them first. They were perched regally far above the deck, near the masthead, whose banner snapped in the wind, two scarlet macaws. They were predominantly red in color but with yellow, blue, and green plumage, each with an incredibly long, scarlet tail. There among the lines and ropes of the ship’s mizzenmast, the birds allowed the wind to get beneath their wings and to raise them majestically from their perch before they flew off. The crew, weakened and depleted by disease, identified them as land birds and speculated that they had been blown out to sea by some storm. Soon, however, in addition to the macaws, the passengers began to see other land birds. More importantly, they saw the trunks of enormous trees and other debris being carried out to sea by the current of an unseen river. Finally, at two o’clock on the last morning, Pedro Robledo saw something like white sand gleaming in the moonlight. It was, of course, Vera Cruz, the West Indies, the New World, and, perhaps, the land of his dreams.

­

PERIOD II

THE KINGDOM OF NEW SPAIN

Vera Cruz

La Villa Rica de la Vera Cruz, or the Rich City of the True Cross,

was Spain’s first settlement on the coast of New Spain.1 It was

so-named because the site, which the Spaniards hoped would be one of rich lands, had been reached on Maundy Thursday with the soldiers disembarking on Good Friday.

Hernando Cortes had, against the orders of his commander, the governor of Cuba, founded the ‘Rich City’ in 1519. Now 58 years old, and looking its age, it merely sat there near a beach of dark sand2 overlooking a fine but potentially treacherous harbor. Although in an advantageous position in terms of its landing, it had little else to recommend it. It was the home of approximately 300 vecinos, or Spanish citizens, and many Indians. These were relapsed idolaters, it was said, whom Bishop Diego de Landa had sentenced to hard labor in the disease-infested holds of ships sitting in the harbor. However, despite its sizable population, there was something about the village that gave it the appearance of imminent abandonment, for it appeared that no one, whether vecino or Indian, wanted to be there. It was, for most individuals, only a way-station for passage into the interior of the country, most notably the City of Mexico that lay 400 miles to the west, in the heart of the kingdom.

* * *

The day on which the ships of the merchant fleet approached the harbor at Vera Cruz was no prettier than many of the days that had preceded it. The August morning promised a coming storm. A stiff breeze came up offshore followed by a low, heavy fog. Even before the Morning Star began to roll in deep troughs, it was apparent that to sail into the harbor under these conditions would a very difficult and dangerous task. The stormy and treacherous sea was a counterpoint to the shouted commands of the captains as they attempted to maneuver their vessels in tricky currents. The fear of the passengers was that the condition of the sea would prevent a landing, for without the wind gauge, they could not avoid the reefs that surrounded the harbor.3

By the use of signals and other means of communication, which the captains had worked out prior to their departure, however, instructions were given to stand out to sea and to await more favorable conditions for landing. The captains knew that if the storm passed, surface temperatures over land would exceed 100 degrees by noon, burning off the fog and resulting in the uneven heating of the coastal plain and the ocean which fronted it. The air over the land would then expand and rise and cooler air would rush in to replace it. This would result in an onshore breeze under which each vessel could make a slow run with the wind into the harbor. Thus, as the squall passed, each ship in turn positioned itself with its mainsail at a right angle to the boat’s direction thus creating the greatest wind resistance. The fleet dropped anchor and none were happier than the passengers of the Morning Star.

* * *

Some might say that the passengers of the fleet knew that this day would eventually come, but those weakened by privation and disease would have denied this. They were the ones who had contracted scurvy or who suffered from dysentery from spoiled food. Burning from fever and wracked with the pangs the illness can inflict upon an empty and retching stomach, many had viewed their hell as everlasting. Catalina, for example, had suffered a turned ankle during the first storm and shortly thereafter tore open a knee that refused to heal. She was in constant pain and did not want anyone to come near her. Bedeviled also by a sore mouth and bleeding gums, her teeth had begun to rattle in her head. Lucia had developed anemia, which was aggravated by hunger and thirst, and like many of the other passengers, had often seemed near death.

With their landing now secured, however, the helpless and emaciated voyagers of the fleet might be taken to the hospital on the slight rise above the harbor. More likely, though, they would be cared for by their family or friends in space they might secure in a private home or in an out-building in the small village. However, the resources of the community of Vera Cruz this August were being severely taxed by the circumstances in which it found itself. In fact, the fleet could not have chosen a less providential time to make its landing.

* * *

The people of New Spain were, in 1577, dealing with one of the most virulent scourges yet to be met by the people of the kingdom. The scourge, called the matalzahuatl (typhus), which had first occurred in 1544 and 1545, had, in 1576, again begun its insidious spread across the land. The Indians, who did not have a childhood immunity to the disease, were its direct victims and the only ones to experience its puzzling and horrible symptoms. These were a violent headache and a severe rash that appeared from the third to the seventh day of the illness’s onset. The rash, which was accompanied by a tenacious fever, appeared as small reddish or purplish spots caused by minute hemorrhaging. The spots eventually began to run together and blend into one. One afflicted by the rash and fever could not bear to be covered and even the lightest touch caused intense pain. The only relief was to roll on the cool ground until death ended the suffering about the seventh day. The malady (which occurred for the last times in 1588 and 1596) was attributed by some to scanty rains and severe heat, both of which had been present in the interior of New Spain for some time. Many thousands had died from hunger, thirst, and the effects of the cruel disease, so that not only houses, but also whole villages, were left without inhabitants. It had become necessary to open great ditches as graves for those who had died, although many remained unburied. Because the survivors lacked the resources necessary to handle the scourge, many bodies had been left in their huts, in the fields or on the public roads. The passengers of the fleet were warned that it would be folly to enter the interior under these conditions. However, with few resources available to them in this village, some ignored this advice. They began to arrange for the organization of a mule train to begin their 400-mile trek to the City of Mexico.

* * *

The decision for the Robledos was complicated. Each member of the family was gaunt and debilitated, and four-year-old Lucia was suffering from anemia and a low-grade fever that ebbed and flowed in its attack. Perhaps with rest and proper nourishment she could be nursed back to health, but attempting to penetrate the interior of the country under the present conditions seemed impossible. There were, in addition, other factors that argued for staying in Vera Cruz at least for the present. Twenty-eight-year-old Catalina Lopez, who could no longer hide her bulging shape under a full skirt, was now visibly pregnant, weak and unable to maintain her balance. She would be unable to walk and would likely be unable to ride a mule either. Then, there was the matter of their cargo.

The unloading of ships at Vera Cruz was a dangerous undertaking generally accompanied by the loss of many lives. The time required for unloading the cargo was an incredible four months, then nine or ten months would elapse before the ships would be ready for their return trip to Seville. Those who now chose to enter the interior of the kingdom were carrying with them only those parcels that had been in their cabin. In contrast, the Robledos had deep in the bowels of their vessel the trunks and valises, boxes and barrels of cloth for their new venture. This material—from brocade to sackcloth—had been stored in Seville awaiting this transit, but earmarked for Pedro’s first cousin, Miguel de Sandoval. Sandoval and his wife, Catalina Sanchez, whom Pedro had described as ‘personas muy ricas’ in his petition of 1574, and with whom Pedro and his family were to have lived, were tragically no longer in the picture. Senor Enriquez, agent for Catalina’s father who had met the Robledos in Seville, had received the cloth. He had overseen its storage and placement aboard the Morning Star. This was weeks before the Robledos arrived from Toledo. This cargo was now sitting among the rats in the dark hold of the Robledos’ ship, and it might take several months to retrieve it. A wait by the Robledos at Vera Cruz would not be wasted though. This would give them the time they needed to examine their surroundings and to determine what their next move would be.

* * *

Vera Cruz was located in a hot, humid coastland below the Sierra Madre Oriental, a range occupying the area’s central and western portions of the kingdom. Immediately along the coast, the lowland was very flat and bordered by offshore barrier beaches and lagoons. The rivers, of which there were many, had as their source the Sierra Madre Oriental to the west.

From Vera Cruz south the plain was poorly drained and had numerous swamps and lakes dotting its surface. These contributed to the proliferation of insects that carried the tropical diseases prevalent in the area. The poor drainage of the south coastal region was exacerbated by the area’s tropical wet climate of both the year-round and monsoonal types that resulted in intense summer rains. The rains in the past year had not been excessive, but in the three-week period just preceding the arrival of the fleet, this began to change with rain falling every day.

Somewhat inland and to the west, was an exceedingly dense rain forest on mountainous terrain with savannas and palm savannas on the wetter portions. The slippery slopes of this rain forest loomed as the passengers’ first trial after leaving the plain. The rain forest presented a difficult but not insurmountable, barrier to their final destination which, for most of the passengers, was Mexico City.

The watery world of tropical rain forest, savannas, swamps, lakes, lagoons, and rivers constituted an unhealthy environment. It was under these soggy conditions that the Robledos sought shelter. They needed a place where they could regain their strength and equilibrium for their eventual move into the interior.

Fortunately, the offer of shelter was almost immediate, though not motivated by charity. A certain merchant from the City of Mexico, a Senor Mattos, was in Vera Cruz seeking to buy the cargo of the fleet. If sold to him, he said, they would not have to wait for their cargo to be unloaded. Thus unencumbered, they could go into the interior where the comforts and amenities of the City of Mexico awaited them. Dona Catalina should not have her baby here among these Indians and poor peasants, he said. Also, he added, if they remained in Vera Cruz, they would be subjected to the mal aire (the musty and bad smelling air of the swamps) and would catch some dreaded disease. “Think of yourselves. Think of your children!” he implored. With much sighing and wringing of hands, his attempts to persuade them continued unabated, but, when it was finally apparent that the Robledos did not intend to sell their cargo, the merchant relented.

Yes, he had a storehouse, he said. It was near the foundations of Cortes’s disintegrating fortress with its earthen walls, bricks, and timbers. Yes, the adobe structure, mostly dry, and with a straw floor, was nearly empty. However, he might be successful in buying cargo from yet another prospective merchant and some portion of his warehouse would then be filled. Yes, he would become their landlord and perhaps their partner. Who knew how their relationship might develop!

It was while trying to make this space habitable and secure that Pedro Robledo bought his first firearm. The merchant, Mattos, a very persuasive fellow who sold munitions along with shirts and socks, insisted that Pedro Robledo arm himself. When Robledo was able to secure his cargo, Senor Mattos said, the barrels and crates would have to be broken down into parcels that could be carried by a mule. Then Pedro would need an armed escort to successfully transport his cargo to Mexico City. Moreover, Mattos insisted, Pedro himself would have to be armed.

Pedro Robledo did not require a great deal of convincing. He had learned from his experience in the forest that he and his family needed the protection a firearm would help give them. The only question was what to buy and from whom to buy it. Senor Mattos had the answer.

“You’ll need a forked metal stick like this one,” he said, holding a metal crutch in the air. “These damn locks are heavy, perhaps half an arroba, maybe more. You put the barrel of your gun on it like this while you aim and fire,” he demonstrated by placing one arm in the crook of the other. “You’ll need powder, a ramrod, wadding, lead, and a bullet mold. You’ll need a powder flask and a pouch, and a harquebus, of course. This one’s French,” he added excitedly, removing a finely tooled implement from the crate in which it was stored, “but I have Italian and Flemish ones, too, if you’d prefer one of those. Actually, it doesn’t matter which one you take. They’re all pretty much the same in terms of the equipment you’ll need. You’ll need it all, lock, stock and barrel!”

So it was that 39-year-old Pedro Robledo got his first flintlock, a Flemish piece with a beautifully incised gunstock. He knew that Mattos had probably made a considerable profit from its sale, but it did not matter to Pedro for he was exceedingly satisfied with his purchase.

* * *

Under conditions of almost constant rain, which only increased or decreased in intensity, the Robledos attempted to reconstruct some semblance of family life. This was exceedingly difficult, for they lacked both cooking and baking facilities. Because of this, they were largely dependent on what they could buy from their better-established neighbors who lived in scattered homes throughout the village. They also obtained foodstuff from the village market where Indians from the interior and from the coast sold fruit, vegetables, fowl, maize-cakes, and baked fish.

Daily, in torrents of rain, Pedro Robledo worked to build a lean-to that he began to affix to the south side of the Mattos warehouse. The mud through which he trudged while foraging for building material was a fetid mess of soil, water, and rotting vegetation. Walking in it was a near impossibility. Every motion required great effort, and it was difficult to remain shod in steps that gurgled in his passage. Falling constantly, especially on the forested slopes, he kept re-injuring the shin that he had first severely bruised while climbing over a fallen tree.

Although he had at first denied the request by six-year-old Diego to help in building the lean-to, Pedro now found that he badly needed him. Pedro would cut the fronds from the bank of the nearby swamp and carry these to the road. From there, in torrential rain, Diego would drag them home. Diego loved working with his father, and they cemented their relationship forever while working together on this undertaking.

* * *

After several days of rest, and with a diet heavy with fruits and vegetables, both Lucia and Catalina began to improve. Catalina was now able to walk to the Indian tianquez, or market, to buy the food they needed. It was here that she encountered the Indian woman. She had noticed her on her first visit, an Indian woman of uncertain age holding the hand of a child approximately two years old. Among all the others whose dress and physical characteristics looked, to Catalina’s European eyes, so very much alike, this person was different. In contrast to the other market-women, who kneeled or sat on petates, the mats on which they displayed their wares, this individual just stood there with her child and did not appear to be a vendor. Perhaps she was with her mother or sister, Catalina thought. The Indian woman, who drew her attention and whose eye she had caught, looked as though she was waiting for someone. Catalina thought little about her until she saw her again on a second, and then on a third day. She asked Senor Mattos if he knew who she was, this woman who appeared so detached from what went on around her. Mattos did not. However, he suggested that she might be the wife of one of the individuals who worked at the docks, perhaps one of those Indians sentenced there for idolatry by “that damned Landa.” Mattos’s supposition proved to be correct, and the woman, Maria de Totonac, and her child, Anac, were to be the first among a long line of Indians, men, women and children, whom Catalina was to befriend.

Maria accepted a position as the Robledos’ cook, but she and Anac remained in the sodden forest living in whatever shelter they could obtain. Eventually, however, she reluctantly allowed Pedro to establish a very small corner of the lean-to as their sleeping quarters. With an outdoor oven and a stone bench on which the family did its cooking, the six of them settled down to some semblance of family life, though Maria and Anac were never truly to emotionally join them.

Although Senor Mattos had warned Catalina not to “go looking for five feet on this cat,” she could not help herself. She attributed the psychological distance she felt between herself and Maria to her inability to communicate adequately with her. Therefore, she tried to learn Maria’s words for simple things such as mud, rain, and fire, but she was not successful. When she spoke one of those words, Maria merely looked at her with a vacant stare and then, with flywhisk in hand, returned to her work. The children were slightly more successful with Anac. Although they could only speak to her when her mother was not present, for her mother jealously guarded her interactions, they managed to learn the words for eyes, hair, and different articles of clothing, but little else. The six of them occupied the same world but were not in it together.

Most significantly, Catalina discovered that Maria prepared meals, and even panes or loaves of bread for herself and for her child separate from what she cooked for the Robledos. Catalina discovered this when she attempted to serve the Indian family a portion taken from a larger loaf of bread she had just removed from the adobe oven. Not only did Maria refuse to eat it, she forcibly removed from Anac’s mouth a piece that Anac had been eating. Then, with Anac in tow, she angrily left the lean-to and proceeded toward the rain forest.

Although the Robledos did not know what to make of this behavior, the bread was a clue, for by the thread one comes to the ball of yarn. Catalina was horrified to learn from Senor Mattos, that Maria, who was attempting to gain revenge for the incarceration of her husband, was among those who were willfully trying to contaminate the Spaniards with the matalzahuatl. They did this by either throwing dead bodies into the ditches of running water from which the Spaniards obtained their drink, or by mixing diseased blood with the bread they made for European families. Nonetheless, despite her feelings of revulsion and terror, and her need to protect her family, she did not want Maria punished, for Catalina could not bear ill will toward anyone. At any rate, it did not matter, for Maria had removed herself beyond punishment. Maria and Anac had disappeared into the woods from which they had come.

* * *

During the months of August and September in which the matalzahuatl was most virulent, a few small mule trains left Vera Cruz for the interior. Most individuals, though, were content to wait on the plain for a break in the weather and for a decline in the epidemic. However, in the interior, far removed from those who waited on the soggy beach, others were making their own attempts to deal with the disease.

In the City of Mexico, Viceroy Martin Enriquez de Almanza, Archbishop Pedro de Moya, the regular and secular clergy, civil authorities, and all the people, especially the rich, did what they could to assist those afflicted with the scourge. They established infirmaries to provide the Indians with the medicine, food, and clothing they so badly needed. The clergy visited the sick to comfort them and also to ensure that none died without the Last Rites. However, the clergy was not successful in these latter endeavors, for Indian deaths exceeded more than 2,000,000, with 100,000 in the state of Tlascala alone. The clergy could not, in this vast country, reach all those who needed them, and the scourge continued.

The day dedicated to St. Hippolytus, August 13th, came and went, and nothing happened to ease the suffering. Finally, in despair, the people of Valley of Mexico asked that La Nuestra Senora de los Remedios (Our Lady of Remedies) be removed from her shrine in the village of Tacuba and, by solemn procession, taken to the City of Mexico. It was hoped that during this passage, the Virgin would see the devastation the disease had caused and would request an intercession by her Son.

Our Lady of Remedies was the statue of the Virgin Mary allegedly discovered by Juan de Tobar (his Spanish name), a cacique, or village chieftain, who lived on the western side of the Valley of Mexico. In 1540, it was said, while hunting on top of a hill near his home, Juan found a very small wooden statue of the Virgin Mary. She was about a hand high and was holding her Child on her left arm and a scepter in her right hand. Like the image of the Virgin of Guadalupe reputedly carved by St. Luke, and found in 1325 near Trujillo (and like numerous other statues of the Virgin buried throughout Spain in the wake of Muslim invasion), the present statue lay almost completely hidden among some rocks beneath a maguey plant where it had supposedly lain for almost 20 years. It was dropped, it was said, by one of Cortes’s soldiers as he fled the Aztecs on la noche triste (the sad night). Tobar took the statue home and made a little altar for it where it stood until 1555 when popular demand required he place it in the village church. Later, when the Virgin interceded in the curing of his blindness and his crippling condition, he had a chapel built to honor her on the spot where the statue had been found. This was the chapel, currently a splendid church (since 1574 under government patronage), from which the citizens now removed La Gachupina (the European Spaniard) the name by which the statue was also known.

Thus, on a dark and gloomy day in mid-September 1577, the Virgin was taken from Tacuba to the City of Mexico. She was accompanied by the viceroy, the audiencia (a council of magistrates), the ayuntamieto (or town council), and the most prominent citizens of the Valley. All held lighted tapers as the procession moved through the streets. Then, for nine consecutive days (a novena), Masses were said. Like the Virgin of Guadalupe, which had been paraded through Rome around AD 600 in an effort to end the plague, La Gachupina was carried through the streets of Mexico for the wonder and veneration of the community. Prayers were offered and promises made. The populace asked for mercy, not for themselves in this instance (although they, too, might fall), but for the Indians who were dying in great numbers. Soon the pestilence began to subside, and, finally, following a two-year period during which almost two-thirds of the Indian population of New Spain perished, the scourge disappeared.

After the epidemic, there was a scarcity of food and a fear of famine, the fields having long been abandoned. In his ‘benevolence’ toward the native population, the viceroy made two pronouncements in their favor. The Indians would be temporarily exempted from paying tribute and the public granaries, as well-stocked as possible under the present circumstances, would be made available to the poor. Here they might buy their corn and wheat at reasonable prices.

The Staging Area

The pleas for an intercession by La Gachupina were made during mid-September 1577. Also in mid-September, despite the negative reports still being received from the interior, the Robledos began to plan in earnest for their trip. Daily, trains laden with logwood and with dried insect bodies arrived in Vera Cruz from the lakes region. It was from these insects, the female Dactylopius coccus, 70,000 of which were required to obtain one pound of product, that the Spaniards obtained the natural dye cochineal. The insects, which were then shipped to Spain for processing, were used to dye wool the crimson, carmine, and scarlet of royalty so highly prized on the continent. Once the packs were unloaded, the Robledos could rent these mules and their muleteers for the return trip to Mexico City.

Following the disappearance of Maria and Anac, the Robledos destroyed the small shelter they had constructed for them within the lean-to. They used much of the cleared space along the back wall where the shelter had been to set up a packing table. When they were finally able to obtain their goods from within the hold of their ship, they moved them to the Mattos warehouse where they began the chore of unpacking and sorting. With oilskins bought from Senor Mattos, they began the lengthy task of re-packing their goods into bales, each approximately 50 pounds in weight, two of which would comprise the burden of a mule. They had been told that they could hire Indian porters if they wished, each of whom could carry 50 pounds of baggage for 15 miles of travel each day. This had struck them as impractical, so they had chosen the mules instead.

Senor Mattos was the one to tell them of Juan de Penol. “A mestizo, born of a Spanish father and an Indian mother. Cortes himself had a son like him. He’s absolutely dependable,” he said, emphasizing the “absolutely.” “You can’t do better. I’ve used him many times. Don’t lose him,” Senor Mattos continued emphatically. “Penol has no mulas de retorno who go back without a load. There will be many who’ll want him, and he and his men will be ready to go back to the City of Mexico by Thursday.”

Pedro Robledo was unsure they could be ready by that time. He blamed himself, although he knew that he had obtained his cargo as soon as it had become available to him. He also knew that he and his wife had begun the tasks of unpacking and sorting as soon as they were able, although, Pedro thought, perhaps it could have been done more efficiently. Perhaps they could have worked longer or harder and would now be finished. It was while he talked to himself in this manner (a trait which would become more pronounced as he grew older) that Juan de Penol, wearing two enormous leaves as a raincoat, appeared out of the rain.

“Senor Mattos told me that you need a guide,” he said, his hand outstretched, not even bothering to introduce himself.

Juan de Penol, who was known to his men as El Arriero, The Muleteer, was a tall, broad-shouldered individual with a long, pockmarked face. Although coarse in dress, he carried himself with dignity.

“You could do no better, Senor,” Penol said. “My village is on the shores of the lake, and I’ve made the trip many times—always without incident,” he added as a means of bolstering his credentials. “You need a guide?” he asked rhetorically. “I’m your guide.” He moved closer to the pot brewing on the stone hearth. “Senor Mattos tells me you’re a very intelligent man, Senor Robledo, interested in everything. He said I could learn much from you. I think, maybe, that you can learn something from me too. We’ll make a good team,” he added with a toothsome grin. “We’ll leave on Thursday!”

Pedro explained that he and his family could not be ready to leave on Thursday. Perhaps they could be ready by Saturday, but Sunday would be better. “You know,” Juan said thoughtfully as he gauged the number of finished bales the packing would produce knowing he could not carry it all. “I could make a deal with another, Senor,” he said as he pinched and patted the cloth Pedro was packing. “There are many who want me, but I want to go with you. We’ll leave on Friday. What you’ve not finished packing, you can leave here. There’ll be other trips, Senor Robledo. Many others. What you don’t have ready on Friday, we’ll take later.”

And so it was. When Juan’s mules came up the sand-packed path of the hill overlooking the harbor at Vera Cruz, Pedro, Catalina, Diego and Lucia were waiting for them. The work of placing saddlecloths (jergas), sheepskin pads, and saddles on the mules, and of attaching packs to these saddles occupied the better part of the morning. It was a process they would repeat in reverse order each evening so that each mule would receive the same packs and load the succeeding day. After eating the remains of their maize cakes, and drinking a bit of chocolate, the Robledo party left the area of the warehouse. They moved across the soggy field to the road—less muddy now that the season of the monsoon had abated—and left their first home in New Spain. Many others would follow.

In the Footsteps of Cortes

There was no want of advice or information concerning what the Robledos would meet with on their trek of nearly 400 miles. They had been told they would cross a series of mountains and three natural terraces as they followed in the footsteps of Cortes. The first of these terraces, they had been told, would be the tierra caliente, or hot region, where Vera Cruz was located. The inhabitants of the coast thought of this as the area of mal aire arising from, they thought, the decomposition of rank vegetable matter in the hot and humid soil. The tierra caliente would continue inland for some 60 miles and extend upward to an altitude of approximately 4,000 feet. At that point, they would enter the second terrace, the area of tierra templada, or temperate zone, a land of perpetual humidity. The third terrace, the tierra fria, or cold region, would occur at between 7,000 and 8,000 feet above sea level. After that, they would be on the Central Plateau. This tableland would maintain an altitude of 6,000 feet across its great expanse until they came to the ramparts surrounding the Valley of Mexico. After climbing this final barrier at 7,000 feet above sea level, they would descend into the valley. The entire journey from Vera Cruz to the City of Mexico, they were assured, would constitute a trip of less than two months.

The Robledos left Vera Cruz in the middle of September eager to see what lay beyond the broad expanse of the coast with its sandy plains and marshy areas of deep, luxuriant growth. They found that this tract of aromatic shrubs, wild flowers, thickets and towering trees extended for a considerable distance inland. They spent the first two nights on the trail amid soggy surroundings. After a trek of perhaps 50 miles, they left the vanilla, indigo, and flowering cacao-groves behind and entered a broad savanna that demonstrated quite dramatically that they had crossed into a new zone. They spent the night of 19 September on the savanna out of the weather, their tents pitched near a stand of trees.

On their first three days of travel, the Robledos had noted that they had not seen anyone on the trail. They had also not come across any areas of habitation. Juan had told them there were Indians who lived in this region, but that the party was unlikely to see them. The elusive hunters of this area, individuals who lived on the eastern slope of the mountains fronting Vera Cruz, would be making the best of the weather by hunting deep in the forest. The tremendous rains of the last month had diminished and would soon become a distant memory. It was anticipated by all who knew the district that it would continue to become drier as the season moved into fall.

On the savanna the Robledo party found deer grazing on the meadows and considered spending a few extra days there as it was important to obtain deer, fowl or other food. They had brought cooking pots and a grinding stone in nets they had attached to their mules, but the only food they carried was maize meal. They had to obtain any additional food they needed by purchasing it, or bartering or hunting for it. Unfortunately, they left the savanna on 20 September, at dawn, without having been successful at killing any game. Pedro had had two opportunities to kill a deer—and had even fired his harquebus—but the distance was too great, and he was unable to hit his target.

After leaving the savanna, the Robledos passed along mossy pathways through a land scarred and fractured with volcanic canyons. The trail passed through vast tracts of lava frozen in innumerable fantastic formations. On the margins of the road were enormous chasms bursting with rich blooms and the most verdant vegetation the family had ever seen. They spent their fourth night at Jalapa, a village some 60 miles from the coast but already 4,681 feet above sea level. Nearby was Cofre de Perote, once blazing with volcanic fires and still resplendent with its mantle of snow. Here, with a cool breeze blowing off the 14,048-foot cone of the extinct volcano, they spent an extra day.

“Dawn broke in a luminous haze,” reads Pedro’s entry for 22 September. Still climbing, they found cultivated fields of corn and wheat that lay beside the road and extended for some distance beyond it. Wooden crosses with strips of red cloth attached guarded the fields. They were there to ward off eclipses and spirits that might cause these crops to fail. After a day of difficult travel, they approached the village of Socochima. This was once a fortified hamlet of exceptional beauty, its old stone fortress hovering on a precipice towering above a magnificent cataract. Here they found many vines of the granadilla, the fruit of the passion flower, and an abundance of good food, and so they spent an additional day.

At Socochima the children for the first time donned their papahigos, a half-mask covering the face, while Catalina began to wear Pedro’s gaban, a greatcoat with a hood. Here the family also obtained cloaks and caps of a material unknown to them. The caps, similar to the montera of Central Spain, caused them untold misery with itchy scalps. However, Pedro felt that the caps, which he insisted his family wear on the trail, were essential to ward off the chill and to hide the crimson locks of their owners and make them less conspicuous targets.

As Pedro tucked an errant lock within Lucia’s cap, it may have occurred to him how out of place these children were in this primitive environment. This was especially true of Lucia who, with her red hair, small, freckled face, and hazel eyes, appeared doll-like on top of her enormous mule. How odd it was that she would be transplanted here. What Lucia remembered about this moment, as her father swept back her hair, was how she had briefly seen herself reflected in her father’s eyes and how she had never before noticed that his red hair was becoming gray. As she clutched the lead rope of her mule and moved out to catch the others, her father hoped he had made the right decisions regarding his family’s future.

Beyond Socochima the party crossed a pass over some high mountains and moved through another village called Texutla. Here, the forest of large oak trees and an extensive stand of pine, reached toward the summit of the Cordillera of the Andes, the colossal range that loomed before them. After leaving Texutla, they completed their ascent of the mountains.

The party awoke the next morning to find their heads ringed with a coating of frost. However, when the sun broke through the trees at 8,000 feet above sea level, it warmed them somewhat and helped to make them feel better. They left the area early and entered another pass where they found a very small group of houses amid the ruins of what had been a stone temple. Again, they found it very difficult to find food and the cold in the shadowed depths of this mountain pass was severe.

Beyond the pass they came to the territory of Zautla or Xocotlan. Here they found an Indian village that had been renamed Castilblanco (White Castle) by some of the Portuguese soldiers with Cortes. These men said that Castilblanco’s flat-roofed homes and white-painted idol-houses reminded them of a town of that name in Portugal. The train was able to obtain food here, though it was sparse and barely enough to feed the party.

After leaving Castilblanco, they entered the province of the once-proud Tlascala. These were the Indians about whom Diego and Lucia had heard their grandfather speak. A number of these Indians, Aztec and Tlascalan chiefs among them, had been presented to Emperor Charles at Toledo in 1528, a spectacle which their maternal grandfather had witnessed. These were also the Indians who had been so devastated by the scourge of the matlalzahuatl. The party became aware they had crossed into the territory of the Tlascala when they found a stone wall, half again higher than a man, which Tlascala’s neighbors, like Hadrian, had built to protect them from raids by an unwanted people. Here, as Cortes had done before them, they followed the Apulco River through a steep canyon and continued on.

In the province of the Tlascala, the home of perhaps 50 vecinos and an Indian population that had once exceeded 200,000, the Robledos found the Andes spread before them like a vast tableland. The plateau they encountered maintained an elevation of more than 6,000 feet for a distance of nearly 600 miles. The vecinos had been warned in 1552 that they could not form estates here to the detriment of the Indians, but now with the Indian population much depleted, small groups of Spaniards had begun to move into the area. The party found it very difficult to obtain food and so went to sleep without any. The Robledo party had been on the trail for eight days and everyone was cold, tired and hungry.

Across the Cordillera of the Andes, a ragged procession of mountains stretched in a westerly direction as far as the eye could see. Of tremendous height, some of these peaks formed the highest land areas on earth. Here the Robledo party found a massive stone jaguar, like one of the mighty stone bulls of Guisando, carved in volcanic rock and pointing toward the glacier-clad Pico de Orizaba (or Citlaltepetl as the Aztecs called it—‘the mountain of the stars’). This extinct volcanic cone, which rose 18,855 feet above sea level, was the highest peak in New Spain and the third highest peak in North America. Its crown, and many of the other peaks that spread to the west, was in an area of perpetual snow. The air was exceedingly dry and the soil, although naturally good, was not clothed with the luxuriant vegetation of the lower regions. The land had a parched appearance owing partly to the greater evaporation that took place on these lofty plains. The Robledos followed a path upward across a dry, forlorn stretch of rock and thorn forest, but the tableland, when they reached it, was thickly covered with larch, oak, cypress, and other trees, some of extraordinary dimensions.

Days later, in Tlascala, on 15 October, the Robledos came to the little town of Xalacingo. About six miles from there, they came to the ruins of what had been a very strong fortress. This fortress had been built of stone and cement, so hard that Cortes had found it very difficult to demolish it, even with iron pickaxes. It had been built to defend the towns of the Tlascala from their mortal enemies, the Indians of Mexico. Although this fortress was now in ruins, and was not defended as it once had been by Indians with swords, shields, and lances, the site itself still concerned the Robledos. They were certain that if a party of Indians lay concealed and waiting in ambush, it would be at a site such as this. However, the Indian population had been decimated, the dead lying unburied in their huts, fields and roads for months. No Indians appeared and the Robledo party continued its slow march through what they considered potentially hostile territory.

As evening approached, the heavens were an infinite ceiling of light, the trees seemingly blazing with the sun’s last rays. Bats and birds swirled in the evening sky, and the members of the mule train slept with the low moan of wind rushing through the mountaintops. Because the wind masked most sounds, they slept with sentries posted and tried to keep their ears tuned to anything that might foretell disaster. The wind moaned ominously through the night but ceased at dawn, and with the light of day became calm and placid.

Still in the province of the Tlascala, the Robledo party finally began to see signs of human life. They saw people in their huts and in their fields of maize and maguey, the plant from which the Indians made their pulque (a fermented drink). The country was beautiful with a soft breeze blowing through the branches of the trees and here and there a little brook from which they could obtain drinking water. The party went through a small village and on 25 October slept by a stream with a double stand of sentries posted. They remained certain that the Tlascaltec would steal their cargo and kill them if they were able. It was on the bank of this stream, at the edge of this possibly hostile Indian village that the Robledos ate dog for the first time.

Unable to find food, except for green plums that they ate with a relish, the party for the third day had little to eat beyond the maize they carried. If they were to maintain their strength for their daily march of 15 miles, they had to have food. The two small dogs that wandered into their camp that evening seemed to present themselves as potential nourishment. Although the Robledos initially refused to eat the dogs that Juan’s men roasted on a spit, hunger eventually triumphed over cultural barriers. The small dogs proved to be a fine meal.

As they sat around their campfire that evening, Juan de Penol described to his men and to the Robledos, the practice the Tlascaltec had once engaged in of eating the people they captured. “This,” he said, “you may find hard to believe, but only 50 years ago, these people kept men and boys in cages to fatten them for the slaughter. Boys like you, Diego,” he said, pointing to the six-year-old who moved closer to his father for comfort. “Most of those who were sacrificed were captives, but sometimes they sacrificed their own people, hundreds of them on some occasions, depending on what they were asking from the gods. Their cues,” he continued, “their idol-houses were smeared with the blood of those they killed and their priests were filthy with clotted blood on their clothes and under their long fingernails and matted in their hair so that it could not be parted. The stench of rotting flesh,” he continued as though he himself had experienced it, “the stench of rotting flesh was horrible. You could not get it out of your nose, and it stayed with you and you would wake up years later, my father said, with this horrible odor in your nose and on your skin. So, eat dog!” he bellowed. “This is nothing. These people planned to eat my father with tomatoes and peppers and perhaps a bit of salt. No, eating dog is nothing,” he said, finally spent. “Today, we eat dog, and tomorrow, perhaps a mule,” he laughed. “We’ll be happy to eat what we can get. You’ll see.” And with this, Juan sat back on his pack, and, with the juice of the meat running down his hairy arms, began to devour the piece in his hands.

* * *

In the province of the Tlascala the ground, although flat and wooded, was quite broken and difficult to traverse. In this difficult terrain, a number of Indians still lived in underground houses like caves, which was the custom of this particular group. Near the village of Tzompantepec, the Robledos came to an enormous plain. This was the site where Cortes’s 400 soldiers had met a Tlascaltec force of several thousands. Juan de Penol recounted how the Spaniards, who were required to use their wounded soldiers as combatants, had been victorious. They accomplished this, Juan said, by having superior weapons, steel armor, a better command of strategy, and the very significant advantage bestowed by having horses. However, Juan also pointed out, if it had not been for Cortes’s Indian allies, some of whom were his mother’s people, Cortes would have been defeated. With these expressions of pride by Juan for himself and for his muleteers, the members of the mule train set up camp. They spent the night of 28 October on the unprotected plain, in a cold wind that blew off the 14,636-foot cone of Malintzin (La Malinche) that lay immediately to their south.

Food was now more plentiful and the Indians, though more numerous, were quite friendly. Nonetheless, the members of the mule train remained on guard. They knew that they must not trust the Indians’ apparent peacefulness. It was a good custom, Juan said, to be prepared, and to conduct oneself as though an attack was imminent. The Indians, however, remained friendly, and the Robledos were able to purchase a considerable variety of foods from them wherever they went. These included fowl and even prickly pears or figs, an edible fruit of the flat-stemmed cactus family that was in season and plentiful in these parts.

* * *

From Tlascala, two routes were possible. They could go through the town of Huexotzinco (‘a place surrounded by willows’), or through Cholula, the route taken by Cortes. Each was in the same general area south of Tlascala, but as the former was 7,516 feet above sea level, and the latter somewhat lower, it was decided to go by way of Cholula. Either route would take them by the 17,887 foot Popocatepetl (‘Smoking Mountain’), an active volcano with smoke coming from its cone. It had last erupted in 1539 and seemed to present no great danger. What the Robledos hoped to minimize were additional frigid nights within the mountains.

* * *

Cholula was a large town on a vast plain with lofty towers and almost 400 great cues, or temples, now in ruin. The party found that it was a land rich in maize, peppers, and in the maguey from which the Cholulans brewed their alcoholic drinks. The people made excellent pottery of red and black clay painted in various designs. They supplied Mexico and all the neighboring provinces with pottery in the same way that Talavera and Placencia did in Castile. Pedro Robledo remarked that Cholula looked from a distance like their royal city of Valladolid in Castile. With many neighboring towns in its vicinity, it seemed a good choice both for travel and for obtaining the food they required, but the distance across the undulating plain from Tlascala to Cholula was greater than they had anticipated. With Catalina eight months pregnant and in great distress, it was decided to camp on the banks of a river. This was near a stone bridge within site of the town approximately three miles in the distance. At this encampment there were some abandoned huts, each consisting of one room with a hard-packed dirt floor. The party took shelter in them. From Indians dressed in cotton smocks they obtained poultry and maize-cakes. They posted sentries and remained in camp for three days until Catalina was again able to travel.

* * *

From the time they had left Vera Cruz, the entire party had been concerned about Catalina. The child she carried was pushing her organs aside in it movement toward birth. She was eating and breathing for two, and there were times when she was in severe pain and could neither walk nor ride. Although her pregnancy would have been ignored under most circumstances, as was the custom of the times, her painful condition could not be. Pedro feared she would miscarry and the loss would kill her. He was resolute that his beloved Catalina would not lose the baby! Pedro’s determination to travel only when she was able to do so required that they spend more days in camp than would have been normal. Therefore, they doubled and even tripled the length of their stays on several occasions. This had appeared to suffice, but it was now apparent that even greater periods of rest would be required and he decided to provide them.

When the party was finally able to leave their encampment, Juan’s mules were hobbled and blindfolded so as to get them to perform their task of crossing the stream. The party was lucky that the stone bridge was in place, since without it, they would not have been able to cross the river. For several days it had been a raging brown torrent. The flood carried logs, trees, brush and boulders that resounded in the dark of their camp like cannonades as they rolled and smashed their way down the streambed. The river was still in flood when they left their encampment on 3 November and moved into the town.

In the town of Cholula itself, where the god Quetzalcoatl had stopped on his way to the sea, the Robledos took up residence, moving into one of the large courtyards. Here Cortes’s soldiers had successfully defeated the townsmen who had conspired with the Indians of Mexico to annihilate them. The courtyards, which comprised a portion of the temple complex dedicated to the worship of Quetzalcoatl, stood undemolished as a memorial to this history. The members of the mule train remained here for an additional two days, hoping for better weather, but really praying that Catalina, now bleeding rather than spotting, would again be able to travel.

While in Cholula, during one of their daily excursions for food, Pedro and Diego, led by Juan de Penol and three of his men, rode to the so-called Temple of Cholula. Here, Diego and his father were astonished to see a pyramidal mound, built with, or rather encased in, unburned brick. It rose to the height of nearly 180 feet, the largest pyramid by volume in the world. The traditional belief of the Indians, Juan related, was that a family of giants who had escaped the great flood had built it. They had designed it to be raised to the clouds. However, the gods, offended with their presumption, bombarded the pyramid with fires from heaven and compelled them to abandon the attempt. What remained was a remarkable structure greater than anything either of the Robledos had seen in their native Castile. Pedro probed Juan and his men for additional information regarding this pyramid but could learn no more. The Indians of their train, most of whom came from the Valley of Mexico, knew nothing of the mound beyond what they had heard from the Indians of Cholula. What they did know a great deal about was how to obtain bounty from the land.

The Indians of the Valley of Mexico provided abundant information about the richest and most diversified flora to be found in any country on earth. The medicinal plants they enumerated could provide a remedy for everything from flatulence to gout. They told about vanilla, bananas, and sugar, the latter which they obtained from the stalks of corn, and spoke at length of beans and plantains: “Not as sweet as the banana,” they said, “but from it we make flour.” They extolled the virtues of cacao from which they obtained chocolate, and they expounded on the virtues and uses of maize, sisal, and especially maguey. It was from this latter plant, an agave, that they obtained paper, pulque, as well as a sweet and nutritious food when roasted in a pit oven. When not on the trail, all of the muleteers tended small fields or kitchen gardens they had beside their homes. The men chiefly did the tasks of cultivating the soil with the women scattering the seed, husking the corn, and taking part only in the lighter labors of the field. In this, the Indians presented a remarkable contrast to the people of Spain who so abhorred agriculture. These men with whom Pedro worked were excellent teachers and Pedro an apt and avid pupil. He had nothing to teach them, but as Juan had told him (and as he was happy to discover), he had a lot to learn from them.

The weather on 5 November was a repeat of the previous four days, the rain continuing unabated. In spite of this, after three days in the area of Cholula, the party was again on the move. They traveled to the village of Iscalpan where they stopped momentarily at a Franciscan monastery. The good fathers asked them to stay. With winter fast approaching, however, the Robledos thanked them for their hospitality and were again on the move. Although the members of the train knew that Popocatepetl was immediately to their south, they were unable to see it due to an extremely heavy fog. All remarked at how incredibly still and quiet it was as they left the courtyard of the mission with not a bird or creature within sight or sound. The area abounded with thickets and ravines and the caravan was ever at the ready for an attack.

At Iscalpan (Calpan), perched at 8,233 feet on the slope of an extinct volcano, the train began to climb the towering rampart which nature had provided the Valley of Mexico (ineffectually, it turned out) to protect it from invasion. Upon reaching what they had mistakenly believed was the summit, they found two wide trails, one of which had been laid out by Sebastian de Aparicio who had begun transporting freight between Vera Cruz and Mexico City in 1536. Juan told them that the right-handed path led to Chalco by way of Tlalmanalco. The left, Aparicio’s, which was more direct, led through pine forests to Amecameca. The latter track was the one they were to take, and again, this track began to climb.

At the ‘Pass of Cortes,’ more than 12,000 feet above sea level, Juan pointed out the remains of stout tree trunks placed there by Moctezuma’s allies to block Cortes’s progress. Cortes’s men had painstakingly removed them from the road. Remarkably, some of these trunks, which lay in adjacent ravines, were still intact, although, they were perhaps, only remnants of their former selves. It was cold now; the air crackled in a slight breeze, and, when they reached the top of the pass, it began to snow.

The snow began to accumulate as they trudged through the mud in the dimming light of the late afternoon. In this period before darkness, the sky to the west was magnificent, a bright salmon in color, that spread across the entire horizon. As the sun slipped behind the skyline, however, it grew very cold and the party knew it was imperative they find shelter before nightfall. They slept the night of 7 November in some huts that had been used as a sort of inn or lodging for Indian traders. The inn, or mesone, had originally been located here to provide shelter for itinerant Aztecan merchants. They made their journeys to the most remote borders of the land and to the countries beyond, carrying merchandise of rich stuffs. Now the owners of the inn, who appeared to live off the distressed condition of the traveler, provided lodging and firewood at a very high price. As night came, the members of the pack train ate well, but experienced intense cold, despite the small fires they lit within their lodgings.

Leaving early the next morning in sharp, clear air, they soon came to Amecameca which Juan said was only two days from the City of Mexico. Despite being very close to their final destination, they again decided to find lodging and to stay for a day. Food was plentiful now, and they had no difficulty finding abandoned huts within which to stay. That evening there was an additional stunning sunset. The flaming rays of the setting sun slipped beneath a bank of clouds to the west, coloring them so brilliantly they irradiated the mists below. As the sun went down, though, the sky turned a dull red in color and the temperature plunged again.

Two days later, on 10 November, the party set out for what they determined would be their final two days on the trail. The valley, for the most part, was level now and travel was easy. Covering about 15 miles on this day, they could see a magnificent lake, sky blue in color, extending before them as far as the eye could see. It glimmered in the sun and a forest of pinewoods grew down to its shores. Finally, over lava flows, they arrived at a village named Ayotzingo on the banks of Lake Texcoco where half of the houses were in the water and half on dry land. On the slopes of a low mountain that came down near the water’s edge, they found an inn where they spent the night. This would be their last night on the trail. Tomorrow, after 57 days in transit, 40 of which they had spent on the trail, they would be in the environs of the City of Mexico.

­Texcoco

The day was far along when the mule train neared Texcoco. A cold rain began to fall, the rain soaking clothing, and dripping from the chins of those in the file as they plodded through the late afternoon. It was nearly dark. The sun, a reddish ball which the riders could see through the mist, taunted them with its hidden warmth as they rode into a small corral.

“We’re nearly there, Catcha,” Pedro said to Catalina. “A few minutes more and we’ll have you in a warm bed.”

Catalina, who had, on this last day, been carried between two mules on a litter made of poles and hide, did not respond. Unstable and uncomfortable, her litter, which had been constructed from saplings, and from rawhide, just barely met its urgent need. The injured mule, which had provided its lattice-like bed, had been shot and skinned, its hide sliced into strips and woven onto a rectangular frame.

The rain came down in a fine mist, a murky cloud of chilled droplets hugging the earth and concealing all about them. Juan and Pedro steadied the litter as it was being released from its bounds, taking it from helpful hands, and carrying it toward a house now revealing itself at the edge of the corral. The children followed.

Lacking a hearth, and unused in the winter, the house was poor, and cold, and damp. With only a bed in each of its two rooms, and no other furniture, it barely met its offer of shelter. Juan said that the house, one of two which he had on the shores of the lake, was the one in which he was born. If Pedro was going to stubbornly refuse to stay at Juan’s more comfortable home—with a hearth in every room—then this poor home was at Pedro’s disposal. The children, Diego and Lucia, were put in one bed, while their mother was placed in the second. After covering the beds with layer upon layer of blankets, which he had taken from among his cargo, Pedro, removed his own wet clothing and got into bed beside Catalina. He lay there quietly for a long time, listening to her coughing, to the falling rain, and to the sounds of his children who were sleeping in the next room. He stretched out at full length beneath the blankets, feeling cold and miserable. And still the rain fell.

The air was keen, the night biting. The room was spare and unbelievably cold, and Catalina’s condition worried Pedro greatly. He was in anguish at the unfeasibility of warming the room, and decided that in the morning, he would have to do something to improve their situation.

Catalina had a raw throat and was shivering almost uncontrollably. She had caught a cold and was chilled to the bone. During the night, she was feverish and her cold became severe, her condition seeming to have deteriorated into a serious malady. She now had a soaring fever, a convulsive cough, and an unbearable cramp in her side.

The next morning, Pedro stood at the door of Penol’s old home, looking at the early morning sky. The clouds were gray and dreary. Patches of pallid fog, delicate and as fine as corned gunpowder, had settled on the lake. A shorebird, unseen but still present on the waters, beat its wings noisily.

Pedro’s children stirred, but the house remained quiet, the Penol family nowhere to be seen. Mules stood in the small corral looking sad and forlorn, shaking water from their backs. Pedro looked beyond them, over the wall of the stone corral, and could see Juan, trailed by a small woman and three ragged children, leading a pack-laden mule up a footpath.

“Y la senora,” Juan asked as he unlatched the gate to the corral, “how is she?”

“Sleeping,” Pedro responded, leaving the doorway and moving into the muddy yard. “I’m worried,” Pedro said, addressing himself first to Juan and then to Maria, who stood behind her husband. “I’ve heard nothing from her.”

“And her fever?” Juan asked. “Is it still with her?”

“It was even worse last night,” Pedro responded, “but I think it’s gone down now.”

“She may not wish to eat when she awakens,” Juan said, “but we’ll have food and a fire ready anyway. Maria,” he said to the woman who stood with him in the stone corral, “perhaps there’s something you can make . . . chaquegue or atole maybe.1 The children will want some of that when they awaken,” he said, again addressing himself to Pedro. “My papa used to make me atole when I was sick. It’s wonderful! These little urchins here,” he said, pointing to his own children who were hiding behind their mother’s skirts, “they pretend illness just to get some. We’ve got meal and everything else you might need on the mule.”

“I’ll pay you,” Pedro said.

“Your money’s no good here,” Juan responded. “You’re my guest, and while you’re here you’ll pay nothing.”

In the lean-to-kitchen, built of poles and cornstalks that stood against an outside wall of the placita, Juan worked to start a small fire and the group enjoyed its warmth.

The Robledo children were roused from bed by the smell of food, and by the pungent scent of a brushwood fire. They appeared in the doorway, cold, stiff, matted, and looking waif-like. They continued to stand in the doorway, appearing shy and unsure of these people whose home they had taken, and holding themselves apart from Maria and from the Penol children who also seemed shy. A litter of puppies occupying a den beneath the house provided a catalyst for play, and the children soon began to warm to one another.

Juan’s wife, Maria de Anahuac, who was there to receive the Robledos, was decidedly the mistress of the household. An individual of perhaps 30 years of age, she had a remarkable presence. Her small face, prominent nose, high cheekbones, and wide forehead were of a reddish-brown hue approaching cinnamon in color. She had straight black and exceedingly glossy hair. Her most arresting feature was her eyes, each of which seemed to be directed towards the bridge of her nose. The Robledo children were afraid of her for she looked like no one they had ever seen.