Читать книгу Great River - Paul Horgan - Страница 38

17.

The River Capital

Four days later, on May 4, the army arrived upriver at the ford discovered by the five swimmers a week before. There the river flowed from between two mountains whose flanks it had for aeons worn away in its search for the sea, still so distant. All went to work to get the train across. The ford was close to the site of modern El Paso-Juarez. The most noble youth sweated himself like the commonest half-breed, hauling at the heavy carts, calling to the cattle, riding back and forth from dust to dust on each side of the river. A man’s worth was in how much he worked when the time came. The Governor’s nephews, Juan and Vicente de Zaldívar, were among the worthiest.

Once across on the left bank, the colony moved on to the pass through the mountains, which they called now the North Pass, El Paso del Norte. Wandering Indians watched them, Mansos, naked and passive, but known to be capable of great ferocity. They had no fixed dwellings or planted fields, but ate berries and whatever they could catch that jumped or ran, such as toads, lizards and vipers, and other animals, all of which they ate raw.

The colony moved safely on with all its burdens on pack animals and in the two-wheeled wagons. The wheels were made of cross sections of cottonwood trunks, joined by a pine-log axle on which rested the wagon bed four feet square. The wagon sides were made of slender branches lashed upright. The shaft of the wagon was of pine, and to it were chained the yokes of the oxen. There went all the household treasures and trifles, the possessions that meant personality and home and ways of doing things, from sacred images to dishes to books and clothing, whether humble or grand.

A servant of one of the officers was in charge of his master’s arms and wardrobe, which included a captain’s lance of silver with tassels of gold, yellow and purple silk; three suits of armor; three Madrid harquebuses, with powder horns, firelocks, and bullet moulds; three sets of buckskin armor for horses; a sergeant’s halberd with yellow and purple velvet tassels; a Toledo sword and a dagger inlaid with soft gold, with silk belts; four Cordovan leather saddles; a bed with two mattresses and coverlet, sheets, pillowcases, pillows. The Captain owned a suit of blue Italian velvet faced with wide gold lace; another of lustrous Castilian satin, rose-colored, with a short gray cloak trimmed in long silver and gold fringe, and rose-colored silk stockings and striped rose-colored taffeta garters; another of straw-colored Castilian satin, slashed over crimson Castilian taffeta with matching garters and stockings; another of purple Castilian cloth with cape, garters and stockings to match, all trimmed in gold; another of chestnut-colored London cloth embroidered in silver; another of flowered silk from China, tan and green, trimmed in gold; two doublets of soft kid leather decorated with gold and silver lace; another doublet of royal lion skin with gold and purple braid and buttons to match. The Captain had a gray rain-cloak, and two Rouen linen shirts with collars and cuffs of Dutch cambric, six handkerchiefs of Rouen linen, eight pairs of linen drawers with socks (plain), six pairs of Rouen linen drawers (trimmed), eight pairs of Cordovan leather boots, four pairs of sole leather and buckskin boots, four pairs of laced gaiters, fourteen pairs of Cordovan leather shoes, white and black. He had three hats, one black trimmed around the crown with a silver cord, with purple, white and black feathers; another gray with purple and yellow feathers; and the last of purple taffeta with blue, purple and yellow feathers and trimmed with gold and silver braid. For riding (he was a captain of cavalry), he had four pairs of spurs, two for short stirrups, two for long stirrups, and some Moorish spurs with silken tassels and cords. And to house himself and his establishment in camp (he had a wife and family and two young Spanish servants, and thirty war horses) there were fifty yards of striped Mexican canvas for a tent, with all the gear with which to set it up, including forked stakes.

The train stretched out for nearly four miles along the road it was making as it went. Drovers and mounted soldiers did their best to keep the animals, the carts, the walking people closed up in manageable formation. It was often hard to do. Animals strayed. Horses would run away and their soldiers grumbled at continuing on foot. The Governor had much to think about on the route. The Viceroy was known to be against him. When the expedition found its settling place, it was possible that another man might arrive by the fleet (for surely the river in the north was near enough to the sea for shipping to ply between New Mexico and Acapulco as all the best cosmographers believed?), and would produce a royal commission to take over the governorship. But perhaps not, if all went well in the meantime. If, for example, there was much of interest discovered east and west of the river, and if there were many conversions, and if the renegade explorers, Bonilla and Humana, were at last found and captured, and returned to the proper authorities to be punished with “pain of death or mutilation of members,” as the familiar legal expression put it. It was one of the duties specified in the Governor’s commission that he find and capture the two deserters believed to be “in that country… wandering about there.”

He hoped also to find one if not both of the Mexican Indians, Thomas and Christopher, who had remained along the river when Castaño de Sosa’s column returned to Mexico.

Leaving the North Pass behind them the Governor’s train marched up the wide flat valley where they met wandering Indians who lived a carefree existence, “far removed from the bustle and hurry of our great cities,” and a former courtier noted that the Indians were “ignorant of court life.” Soon they heard that the first of the river towns lay ahead. The Governor sent a detachment under Captain de Aguilar to scout the town, with orders, under penalty of death, not to enter the town for any reason whatsoever, but to see it from afar and return to report.

At a point sixty miles above the North Pass, the army came to the great westward turn in the river caused by the end of a mountain range. It was the same place where Núñez Cabeza de Vaca had turned west. The river could not be followed in its valley there, for on the east bank mountains sloped almost directly into it, and on the west bank the land fell to the river in such a repeated tumble of gullies and arroyos, with rising and falling hills between, that no road could be made over it with the tools and equipment owned by the army. And where the river went west, the army wanted to go north. There was only one thing to do, which was to leave the river and continue overland on the northward course, and presently—ninety miles upstream—the river would be accessible again. For all the intervening distance, bare, high and abrupt mountains separated the travellers from the river, and their course would lie over a desert plain flat enough for the carts and wagons.

Just as the colony was about to leave the river and enter the journey over the north-lying desert, Captain de Aguilar returned to report to the Governor.

He had seen the town?

Yes.

How far away was it?

About ninety miles—near the end of the desert passage.

And there were people?

Yes, he talked with them.

Talked with them?

The Governor was enraged. Did the Captain disobey orders and enter the town, then?

Yes. He had done so.

The Governor stormed on. Did the Captain not suppose that the Governor had full and sufficient reasons for giving orders not to enter the town? It was a known habit of those Indian people to gather their possessions and abandon their towns when they heard of an army’s approach. Such behavior would defeat the Governor’s purpose. If they now through the Captain’s disobedience had news of the approaching caravan, a proper beginning for the colony might be impossible. The Captain’s grave offense must not go unnoticed. The Governor hardly pausing to catch his breath commanded that he be executed at once, for outright disobedience to orders.

The sentence aroused the colony. The Captain’s men came to plead with the Governor for his life. The Governor listened to all who asked to be heard. Had he been hasty? But he was not entirely alone in his decision. Juan Piñero, an ensign of the army, who had gone north with the Captain, stated that he for one had wished to obey the Governor’s orders exactly. He had been overruled, and he now repeated that the orders should have been obeyed. He would not plead against the punishment. But in the end the Governor yielded to all the others and spared the Captain.

But he felt obliged now to take a mobile and light detachment of thirty horsemen and go ahead himself, to meet the Indians in the pueblos, and pacify them, and keep them in their houses. He gave command of the army to a senior officer and by forced marches crossed the desert passage leaving the army to follow him in its trudging.

They made their course by the stars at night. The desert was bounded on east and west by long mountain ranges between which the river had once run. In the summer daytime the heat was great. Mountains seemed to waver on their bases in the desert shimmer. A knife, a sword, any metal thing, or even leather, if it was shined and hard-finished, was actually too hot to handle if exposed to the sun. The mountains between the desert and the river held the colors of dead fire—dusty reds, yellows, clinker purple, ash violet, and burned blacks; and at sundown for a few moments seemed to fire alive again on the surface as once they must have been fired within.

On May 21, Pedro Robledo, one of the soldiers, died and was buried near the end of the mountain range on the west, which was named for him. Two days later the Governor’s party was in distress from lack of water. They had advanced only six leagues since the twenty-first. Man, horse and dog (there was a little dog travelling with the party) searched for a water hole in any likely place. On the twenty-third the little dog disappeared and awhile later returned to his soldiers. They took him up and spoke to him, but he had already answered them, for all his paws were freshly muddy, and there must be water near-by. Everyone looked again, and the dog helped, and presently Captain Pérez de Villagrá found a water hole a little way toward the mountain barrier of the river, and soon after that a soldier named Cristóbal Sanchez found another, and all drank, some too much, including the Father President Fray Alonso Martinez, who drank until he was ill. They named the place Perillo Spring, after the little dog, and marked it for those following. It was for generations the only place where travellers could find water in the whole desert passage between the outlying mountains. Later Spaniards named the ninety-mile desert the Jornada del Muerto, the Dead Man’s March^*—the name by which it was finally to be known.

Where the river came back from the west and joined the northward route, ending the Dead Man’s March, the Governor found a good campsite. In honor of one of his Franciscan chaplains, the place, and the mountains that rose above it, were given the chaplain’s name—Fray Cristóbal—when on a later passage he died near there.

And north of there on the river’s west bank clear in the diamond sunlight was the first of the towns. As the Governor approached with his men the sky went suddenly black with clouds. How could it be, when a moment ago the sky was clear? A torrent fell on the instant. The soldiers trembled. There was no shelter. They prayed. It was certainly the Devil who had done this, to keep the army from its good task. Hail followed the rain and wild shattering thunder. Lifting their crucifixes the friars replied to the storm with the terrible prayers of exorcism. What happened instantly was almost more fearful than the storm. The sky cleared, the rain stopped, the clouds vanished in silence, and the sun shone forth. As the soldiers rode forward to the pueblo they saw that the Indians too were amazed at the sudden end of the tempest.

^* Given in reference to the Spanish usage which defined Jornada as a single day’s march.

The Indians came out to meet them, took them into the pueblo, gave them rooms, food and comforts. Seeing the crucifixes on the long rosaries of the friars the Indians took them up and kissed them. On the walls of the little cubed rooms the soldiers saw paintings of the Indian gods—gods of water, mountain, wing, seed, all fierce and terrible. In honor of the day, for it was the Feast of Saint John the Baptist, June 24, the Governor ordered a military display and sham battle. He divided the command into two sides, both mounted, and put his nephews Juan and Vicente in charge as opposing leaders. The brothers gave a brave show, and all handled their horses with skill and their weapons with dexterity. Indians watched. There was much meaning to the tournament.

When it was over the Governor went among the soldiers speaking about the games. Presently three naked Indians came up to him, and one declared loudly, in Spanish:

“Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday!”

What was that?

The Governor and all others were astonished. As a soldier later said, it was like hearing the serpent bark like a dog, after the defeat of the Tarquinians, in Roman history.

The Indian would not repeat what all were sure he had said, and therefore the Governor had him and his companions seized. Then, terrified, the Indian spoke again.

“Thomas and Christopher!” he shouted.

What?—And by much questioning with signs, and indications upon the ground, the soldiers found that he was telling them of two men named Thomas and Christopher who lived at a town two days away, who had been there for seven years, ever since the last time the valley had seen men with horses, armor and guns.

This could only mean the two Mexican Indians who had stayed behind after Castaño de Sosa. The Governor needed them as interpreters, for they could speak Spanish, and having lived in the pueblos they must now speak Indian languages. Their capture was essential to his mission. He took leave of this first town and hurried north with his cavalcade to look for Thomas and Christopher two days’ journey away.

On the following day he came to Puaray and with all his men was hospitably received. They were conducted into the pueblo where passing through a room they saw something that made their hearts turn over. It was a wall painting which had been lately whitewashed, as though in hasty response to a warning. But the effacement was not complete, and the Governor and his men could see that the mural painting represented the murder with stones and arrows of two Franciscan fathers. Now it was plain that seventeen years ago Fray Agustín Rodríguez and Fray Francisco López had died there in that fashion. With his eye the Governor warned his people not to give any sign. They accepted rooms for the night, but did not sleep, and late in the darkness while the whole pueblo slept, the Spaniards led by the Governor withdrew in dead quiet.

Early the next morning at the pueblo which the Spaniards named El Agua de Santo Domingo they met the Indians as friends and asked if Thomas and Christopher were here.

Yes, they were here, but still in bed.

Just where?—and the soldiers found them, brought them to the Governor, and they spoke freely with him.

They said they were Christian Indians who had come from New Spain with Castaño. When he was taken away, they had stayed here of their own will, were now married to pueblo women, and were happy. They could speak the Mexican, Spanish and the local Indian tongues. From that time on, they belonged to the Governor, and played a vital part in his government, for through them he could now make his way into the understanding of the people of his river.

At Santo Domingo the Governor received seven chiefs representing thirty-four pueblos. With fuller communication achieved through Thomas and Christopher, a solemn ceremony was held in the great kiva of Santo Domingo in which the chiefs swore allegiance to God and the king of the Christians on the seventh of July.

The Governor moved upriver again, and on the eleventh arrived near the two pueblos of Yuque and Yunque which faced each other across the river just below the confluence of the Chama with the Rio del Norte. These were the same towns seen fifty-seven years before by Captain Barrionuevo of Coronado’s army. From the nearer one of these pueblos—the one on the east bank—the people came out to give their submission to the Governor, and peaceably evacuated their houses to let him and his soldiers move in. In memory of the first Spaniards who had erected the cross there years before, the Governor named his town San Juan de los Caballeros, and designated it as his capital.

Captain Vicente de Zaldívar, the Sergeant Major, was sent downstream to meet and escort the heavy train of the wagons and the cattle to the new capital, while the Governor with a small party rode to the north as far as Taos, and to the east as far as Pecos.

At Pecos a man was brought forward who could speak in a sort of Spanish. His name was Joseph. After a few words he struck deep into the interest of his hearers. Another mystery of the north was partly solved as he talked. Five years ago Joseph was taken from the Rio del Norte with other Indians to guide some Spanish soldiers eastward to the plains. He spoke the names of Captain Francisco Leyda de Bonilla and Captain Antonio Gutierrez de Humaña.

The Spaniards quickened at this mention of the deserters, the leaders of an illegal entry, whom it was the Governor’s assigned duty to arrest, and for whom he had been looking ever since his arrival in New Mexico.

But go on: where were they now?

Joseph continued. They had gone together eastward, and for six or seven weeks travelled past pueblos, rivers, great herds of buffalo, until one day Gutierrez de Humaña turned on Leyda de Bonilla and killed him on the plains.

So: Gutierrez de Humaña was not only a deserter but also a murderer. What else?

After that, the party came to a large river, and there Joseph and five other Indians ran away and tried to go back to the Rio del Norte. He alone got back, and then only after a year’s captivity by plains Apaches.

And Gutierrez de Humaña and the rest of his soldiers?

They had never returned from the plains. There were several possibilities. They might be living there as conquerors. They might be captive slaves of buffalo-hunting Indians. They might be dead.

Joseph, after his escape, hearing that there were other Spaniards on the river, went to meet them, and there, at Pecos, found them. The Governor was glad to take him into his service as interpreter, guide and geographer. Turning back to the Rio del Norte, the Governor’s party crossed westward and explored the Jemez province.

In his absence from the capital, other soldiers, with fifteen hundred Indians, undertook to build the first municipal works—an irrigation ditch—for the river city of San Juan. At that point the valley was wide, with many grand steps in the land rising away from the river, through river terraces of pinkish sand, and Indian-colored foothills carved by the wind into fantastic shapes, and high fiat mesas, to mountains whose forests turned the clear air blue as smoke. The river course was edged with trees.

Here on August 19 the wagon train arrived to be reunited to the Governor and his command, and to stay on the river as no colony had yet stayed. They brought more than their lashed and lumbering cargoes to the capital high on the river, more than their toiling bodies. They brought all that had made them, through the centuries. If their heritage was a collective memory, it remembered for all more than any one man could know for himself. It shone upon their inner lives in another light than the light of the material world, and in countless hidden revelations suggested what brought them where they were.