The Moor's Account (11 page)

S
EÑOR
C
ASTILLO AND HIS MEN
finally emerged from the wilderness a few days later. How pitiful they looked! Their faces were gaunt, a result of the meager rations the governor had allowed for their mission, and their muddy clothes stuck to their bodies. In the hands of a young soldier, the flagpole leaned sideways, as if he no longer had the strength to hold it upright. Slowly, in small clusters, they made their way into the village square. Everyone came to watch them dismount. Did you find the port? the men asked. Did you come across signs of a city? Where is the hatchet you borrowed?

Señor Castillo raised his hand to quiet the hubbub. From the glum look on his face, it was clear he did not bring the good tidings for which he had hoped. Addressing himself only to his fellow captains, he said: We followed the Río Oscuro all the way to the ocean, but we found only a wide and shallow bay. The water never rose higher than our waists.

This news was greeted with silence. Then Señor Castillo took off his helmet and ran his hand through his hair.

What does this mean? Diego asked him finally.

It means we have no idea where the port is, Señor Castillo replied. It means we are lost.

Come now, Diego said. You are letting your emotions govern you.

It is true.

No, it is not, a voice said.

The crowd parted to let Señor Narváez through, and he came to stand in the clearing, in his blue doublet and impeccably clean breeches. The governor had a flair for dramatic announcements. This one was no different—it had the effect of quieting the whole company and shifting its attention to him. Now he looked around him with satisfaction and even a hint of amusement. Hombres, he said, my investigation has revealed that Apalache is not just the name of the kingdom, but also the name of its capital city. Think about it. When we Castilians speak of León, we can mean either the city or the province. Likewise, Apalache is both a kingdom and a capital. This was why the word Apalache caused some confusion in my interrogations. But the prisoners have confirmed for me everything that we already know about the kingdom of Apalache—that it
is very rich with gold, that it has many fields, and many people who labor in them. At this moment, we are in the area of Apalache, but we have not yet reached the city of Apalache.

The governor always spoke to the soldiers in a familiar way. He laughed at the coarse jokes they made and, when the occasion presented itself, he was not above making one of his own. This was why the soldiers liked him, even if what he had to say was not what they wanted to hear. But Señor Castillo always sounded like a nobleman, with the full vowels and trilled consonants that would have been better suited for the royal court. Worse, he rarely addressed the soldiers directly, so he seemed aloof even if that was not his intention.

And look at this, Señor Narváez added, holding up a very large and heavy Indian necklace, of the kind that a person of high rank might wear. The necklace was made of white seashells, so small that they looked like beads, and at its center was a golden amulet shaped like an egg. My page found it in the bushes, a quarter of a league upriver.

The page tucked his thumbs in the loops of his belt and looked on with undisguisded pride. The men whistled and cheered and began to talk about conducting a thorough search along the riverbank.

But Señor Castillo interrupted them. So how far is the capital of Apalache?

Ten days, more or less, the governor said. It is impossible to get a precise answer from the savages because their idea of time is not the same as ours. In any case, we have tarried long enough in this village. It is time to resume the march.

And how will we return to the ships?

Exactly as I said before, Castillo. Once we secure Apalache, I will send a contingent to the coast, and from there to the port of Pánuco.

A
LTHOUGH
S
EÑOR
N
ARVÁEZ STILL LED
the procession of horsemen, he rarely spoke to his captains, choosing instead to relay his orders to his page, who walked beside him on foot. He seemed annoyed with Señor Castillo for his insistence on a mission to return to the ships and disappointed that it had failed to quell the young hidalgo's doubts. Now the governor's gaze was always fixed on the horizon, as if he expected at any moment to catch a glimpse of Apalache; he did not want to miss it. The captains, too, withdrew into a thoughtful silence, all of them anxious
now to reach the capital. As we marched deeper into the wilderness, the soldiers no longer sang, and few people spoke.

We were taking a break from the midday heat one day when I heard a distant melody. It sounded like a flute, or many flutes, and I suddenly recalled the words of an old Castilian official, a man who had spent some years in La Española and had been a frequent dinner guest in the captain's cabin during our trip across the Ocean of Fog and Darkness. The Indians in these parts, the official had said, do not have art. They make some music, but it is very primitive, of the sort that a child could make if he were given a drum. They have no painting, no drawing, no sculpture, no architecture of any sort, none of the things that we Castilians take for granted.

Yet now it seemed that the sound of music was getting closer and clearer. Señor, I said, as a wave of excitement rippled through me. I cupped my right hand around my ear and pointed with the other toward the trees at the edge of the clearing. My master's eyes widened and he turned toward the sound of the music. Abruptly the governor stood up. He had heard it, too. Others looked up from their food or stopped conversing with one another.

A group of flute players emerged from between the pine trees ahead of us. There must have been twenty of them, walking two by two, playing a beautiful melody on limb-sized instruments. The feeling behind the music seemed to be ancestral, the kind of music one might play at large gatherings or on special occasions rather than around the brazier or the campfire. All the musicians were quite tall, as tall as me, dressed differently than the Indians I had seen before, with elaborately painted deer hides stitched together to cover their private parts. When the last one of them came out from the woods, they lined themselves in a single row against the trees. They turned out to be the advance party of a chief, who arrived now, riding on a servant's shoulders. His long hair was pulled up in a very high knot that ended in bright red feathers and his body was entirely covered in blue tattoos. Behind him, a retinue of men and boys followed.

It seemed to me that we had come across this tribe of Indians by chance, but it was, of course, just as likely that they had spied us as we entered their territory and had come looking for us. I expected the governor to call upon the notary to speak on his behalf, as he had done with the
Indian army at the Río Oscuro, or even to ask for Pablo, his prisoner and chief interpreter, but instead he put his helmet on and advanced toward the cacique himself, his head slightly bowed in salute. An ostrich plume on his helmet had come loose and it drooped with his movement. The Indian leader dismounted and inclined his feathered head, in imitation of the governor.

Pánfilo de Narváez, the governor said. Then, pointing to his eight captains, he gave their names as well.

Dulchanchellin, the Indian chief said. And then he, too, named his deputies.

Señor Narváez reached into his pocket for a string of green glass beads, which he presented to the chief, again inclining his head with a humility this servant of God had not witnessed him display before. The tactic seemed to work: Dulchanchellin looked pleased with the shiny offering. He took off the painted deer hide he wore as a mantle and gave it to Señor Narváez. With these pleasantries out of the way, the governor told the chief, through a combination of gestures and a few words he had learned from Pablo, that he was looking for the capital of Apalache.

Apalache, Dulchanchellin repeated, as if he wanted to be quite sure before he replied. He looked beyond the governor, at the hundreds of Castilians who were assembled in the clearing. They were all standing, having abandoned their meals or their naps, and some had instinctively clutched their weapons, but the music had put them in a celebratory mood. In addition, the elaborate hairstyles and clothing of Dulchanchellin's retinue, and the formal way in which they had made their entrance, generated a mild curiosity among the Castilians, quite different from the hostility with which they had greeted the Indians of the Río Oscuro. After a moment, the cacique pointed to where the sun would set.

It is in that direction, Señor Narváez said triumphantly, as if he alone could understand the chief's gesture.

Dulchanchellin beckoned the governor to follow him.

He will take us there. Now the governor spoke directly to his captains for the first time. Gather your men. Tell them we are leaving.

We marched behind this cacique and his men for three leagues. The land around these parts was denser than before, with trees as tall as minarets, but the Indians led us through this wilderness the way one leads a blinkered donkey through a crowded market—carefully and with a great
deal of patience. At length, we reached a river, so wide and so deep that new rafts would have to be built in order to cross it. The governor asked for his carpenters, but only Fernándes came forward, and it was to say that it was already the middle of the afternoon; the rafts would not be ready before nightfall.

That is not good enough, Fernándes, the governor said. You should recruit more men or build bigger rafts.

Don Pánfilo, this is not about the men. I cannot recruit more if I do not have enough tools to give them. I can build larger rafts, but as I said they will not be ready before the end of the day.

How long did it take you to build rafts at the Río Oscuro? Not more than three hours, as I recall.

Aye, three hours. But we are already losing light, Don Pánfilo.

Well, I think it can be done.

The governor was eager to cross the river, a sentiment that many of us shared; we were all impatient of the future that had been promised to us.

Dulchanchellin, who was watching these palavers from his seat under the shade of a tree, came to offer his canoes. But one of the horsemen, not having heard the offer or perhaps not believing it, decided to cross the river anyway. His name was Juan Velázquez. He was a jovial man, I remember, quite popular among the soldiers, whom he entertained with his songs and riddles. Now holding the reins with one hand and a long staff with the other, he nudged his horse into the river. It is not too deep, he cried.

The other horsemen lined along the riverbank to watch him. One of them said, See, we have no need for the savages' help. Yet he waited and watched.

Velázquez waded deeper. The water was gray, reflecting the fading afternoon light, but closer to the other bank, where cypress trees provided their shade, it was brown and green. Come, compadres, he called, his voice merging with that of the tumbling water below. Then the horse lost its footing and Velázquez dropped his staff and threw his arm out for balance. The horse raised its head out of the water, struggling to breathe, struggling with the weight of the rider on its back, but in a moment, just like that, the water surged around them and swept them downstream, as effortlessly as it carried twigs and leaves.

Velázquez, the soldiers cried as they ran down the riverbank. Velázquez!

Señor Narváez, who was still speaking to Dulchanchellin, heard the commotion and came to the riverbank. What happened? he asked. Find him.

A group of soldiers brought the body back sometime later, carrying it on their shoulders and hauling the dead horse as well. No one spoke. We all parted to let the procession through until it reached Señor Narváez. It was as though the soldiers were bringing a sacred offering to the governor, but he looked at them glumly and turned to his page. What are you waiting for? he asked. Have the men dig a grave.

I
T WAS
F
ATHER
A
NSELMO
who delivered the graveside prayer, his voice trembling but unhurried. He spoke of Juan Velázquez as a simple man with simple concerns: a native of Cádiz, a devoted husband to his wife, and a father to three children. He was also a soldier, Father Anselmo said, a man who served his country faithfully in the battle of Pavia, who loved to sing and enjoyed his wine. Sometimes a bit too much. The soldiers nodded knowingly, repressing smiles. What I mean to say, the friar added, is that he was like all of us—an ordinary man caught in extraordinary circumstances.

The words of Father Anselmo, so different in tone from those of the commissary at the Río Oscuro, had a great effect upon the soldiers. Instead of accepting the death of one of their own as the inevitable price of conquest, they began to complain about the governor. Why had he not listened to the advice of the carpenter and waited until morning? He had been in too much of a rush to cross the river. If only he had given the order to wait, Velázquez would still be alive.

But, as I said, the governor knew how to handle the soldiers. Immediately after the funeral, he ordered the dead horse slaughtered and portions of meat served to every man in the company, including the porters and slaves. Until then, our rations had consisted of the corn looted from the last village, so everyone was exceedingly grateful for the meat, even as we hated the way in which it had come to be in our possession. And the governor announced that he had named this river in honor of the dead man: Río Velázquez. Thus the grumbling died out.

In the morning, Dulchanchellin's men shuttled all of us from one bank to the other in their handsomely painted dugouts, their oars dipping rhythmically against the current. The water ran fast and clear, but
around the boulders that sat here and there in the riverbed, it turned white with foam. With the sun still in the east, the sky was a darker shade of blue, enclosed in all directions by the deep green of pine trees. When it was time for the governor to board, Dulchanchellin came forward and pointed to the ostrich feathers. Oh, the governor said. You want this? With a laugh, he plucked the loose feather off his helmet and handed it to the cacique, who stuck it among the other bright feathers in his headdress, like a king adding another jewel to his crown. At last, Dulchanchellin raised his hand to bid us farewell. He stood with his retinue, watching, until the very last one of us had departed from his kingdom.