The Moor's Account (15 page)

Return their women, I silently begged. Return their women.

Señor Dorantes turned toward me. What did you say, Moro?

I had not realized that I had spoken out loud, so for a moment I looked uncomprehendingly at my master's surprised face.

But Diego intervened. Don Pánfilo, he said. Return their women. That is what the cacique is asking you.

The governor pretended not to have heard. A butterfly had landed on his arm, just below the couter of his armor, but he paid it no attention. Instead, he held out the golden ring, lifting it up closer to Kamasha's face, as if the cacique were half-blind. This insolence infuriated the Apalaches, and one of them threw his lance into the open doorway of a hut.

He is threatening us, the page shouted.

The cry seemed to wake Señor Narváez. Like an actor who had suddenly remembered his lines, he lowered his arm and took a step back. It seemed he was about to say something—was it another one of his spectactular announcements?

Just then, the page fired his crossbow, striking Kamasha's deputy in the shoulder. This was met with a great rattling of lances and arrows, which forced those of us who were not in armor to duck to the ground. From my crouching position, I saw a chestnut mare fall to her side, moaning with pain; her eyes turned white, her nostrils flared. The other horses whinnied and shook their heads and pulled at their tethers, trying to set themselves free. Silently, the swarm of butterflies flew away from us and went to roost together on a pine tree.

Behind me, there was much scrambling and shouting. Some soldiers had been struck, others were running back, and yet others were loading up their muskets and arquebuses. What terrible power these modern weapons had! As soon as they were fired, a dozen Apalaches fell to the ground one after the other; those who had not been shot were so stunned that they ran away, dragging their wounded comrades. Within moments, the city square was empty again.

Señor Albaniz, the notary, rushed to the side of the fallen mare—his mare—and placed his hands on her neck, where the Indian arrow had landed. It was lodged very deep.

The governor turned angrily to his page. You should have waited for my orders.

But the savages were about to attack, the page replied.

You just cost us a horse.

I was only defending you.

Señor Albaniz looked up. His deep-set eyes usually gave him a gloomy look, but today they made him seem frantic. You just killed my horse, you fool.

I did not, the page replied. The savages did.

Albaniz, the governor said, you can have one of the packhorses.

But, like all the other horsemen, the notary was greatly attached to his animal and the offer did nothing to quell his anger. It was especially hard for him to hear the governor order that the dead mare be slaughtered for meat. Then, just as the governor turned around to offer some words of consolation to the notary, a fireball landed on the roof of a hut nearby. Others quickly followed, so that a dozen houses were ablaze before any of us had a chance to act.

Get water, the governor finally said. Hurry.

So unprepared were we for this attack that it took us a while to find buckets and to form lines going from the storage tub toward the different fires. Once water was thrown on the thatched roofs, however, the air filled up with thick, gray smoke, which stung our eyes and made it difficult to see anything. All around me, I could hear the coughing of exhausted men, the stomping of frightened horses, and the weeping of the women inside the temple.

Then came the cries of the warriors; they were breaking down the temple doors to release their women and children. Some of the soldiers left the water line to fight the Indians, but others remained, trying to save their food and supplies from the fires. So there was a great deal of confusion, especially as we could not hear the governor's orders, his voice being drowned out by all the screaming and crying. In the end, each man did what he thought was best. My master decided to fight. In spite of the smoke and the noise, he mounted Abejorro and managed to steer him toward the Indians, trampling as many of them as he could.

I hid in the nearest place I could find—the carpentry stall. The ground was littered with pieces of timber and various lengths of rope, signs of a project that had been abandoned after our expedition swept into town. Along the wall, hammers, saws, and hatchets hung in a neat row, reminding me of my uncles' workshop and at once making me feel safe. Perhaps it was this feeling that led me to peek over the wall, to try to get a view of the battle. Let them have the women, someone yelled. Get the cacique.

The order surprised me—had common sense finally pierced through
the madness?—so I turned toward the voice and thus failed to see an Indian arrow darting through the air, aimed for me. It landed in my thigh. The pain flared through my leg, knocking the air out of me and dulling any other feeling. I had no time to think, because the man who had struck me was already loading his bow once more, I only had time to grab a hatchet and throw it at him. I was sprayed with something warm, something that I instantly knew was blood. The Indian slumped to the ground, dead.

I fell back into the stall, stunned by what I had done and by the agony I felt. Blood had begun to flow from my thigh, trickling down in several warm lines along my leg. There was nothing to do now but take out the arrow, which I did as swiftly as I could, pulling out bits of flesh and hair with it. Only then did I hear myself howl with pain, but also with the strange relief of being alive.

S
EÑOR
N
ARVÁEZ HAD CHOSEN
to keep the cacique hostage in order to guarantee that the Apalaches would leave us alone, but in fact the Indians attacked us relentlessly over the next few days. When we went to fetch water at the river, they attacked; when we picked fresh corn from the field, they attacked; when we tried to gather firewood around the city, they attacked. The governor ordered us to use the wooden idols from inside the temple to feed our cookfires; he sent soldiers in chain mail to the river to fetch water or to the fields to pick corn; and he posted sentinels armed with muskets and arquebuses at all the entrances of Apalache.

As for me, I tried to recover from my leg wound. I washed it thoroughly and wrapped it in a clean cloth boiled in an infusion of oak bark, a remedy I had seen my aunt use whenever my uncles hurt themselves in their workshop. I gave great thanks to God that we remained in Apalache after I was injured, because in truth I could not have walked even a league on that leg, let alone the five or six leagues per day we usually covered in our march. I made myself a cane and hobbled around on it, attending to the cooking, cleaning, and mending.

Other men in the company had not been so lucky: nine had died in the battle against the Indians and three others later, of their wounds. They were buried, one after the other, in a small plot at the edge of the capital, their graveside prayers once again delegated to the young friar, Father Anselmo, who was becoming popular among the men. After the morning
mass, after his brothers in brown robes retired to their huts, he would stay and play the fiddle. He played tunes from the old country, some mournful, others joyous, his long fingers moving gracefully on the instrument. The men—disappointed, fatigued, fearful, or sick—would listen and, for a few moments, they would forget about the lost gold, the long march, or the Indians waiting in the bushes.

But then, after the music had stopped and they had returned to their chores, the men would start to remember. Quarrels would erupt between them about little things, things that had not mattered when all they had to do was march and hope, but now seemed to matter a great deal: who received better quarters, who should be entitled to larger rations, who would inherit a dead man's armor or his boots. So the commissary spent much of his time adjudicating quarrels, trying to keep the peace as best as he could by means of difficult compromises.

Throughout all this, the governor was absent—he was busy with his interrogations of the cacique Kamasha and with the scouting missions he organized around the city. Then, one evening, he invited the commissary and the captains to meet him in the Indian temple. It was cool inside the hall—there had been two thunderstorms that day and the air felt new, with fewer flies and mosquitoes to torment us. A large cross of rough timber stood against the northern wall, where the wooden idols had once been, and the round baskets that had sat on the pedestals were gone, leaving behind only dark circles on the brown mats. The governor's candelabras had been lost in one of the swamps we crossed, so his servant had used wooden torches to light the bare table on which he served dinner—it was a good dinner, with roasted rabbit meat, cooked beans, and some fresh corn, although it was more modest than what was usually served for such councils. While the captains took their seats on benches, waiting for their leader to speak, I stood against the wall, waiting to refill my master's cup or clear his plate.

The governor stood up. He wore a gray doublet, but the edges of it were becoming yellow and there was a hole in his breeches, just above his left knee. Esteemed señores, he said. The cacique Kamasha has informed me that Apalache is a kingdom of many cities, but none is bigger or richer than this one, and that, on the contrary, the other cities are much poorer. However, about eight days' march south of here, he says, there is another city called Aute, which is very close to the ocean and has a great many
quantities of corn, beans, and fish. My plan is to march to Aute, from where we can send a party to the Río de las Palmas. Since the city is on the coast, and since it has its own food reserves, we can stay there for as long as is necessary until we make contact with our ships. And of course, once we have the ships, we will sail along the coast until we find an area more suitable for settlement than this one.

The governor invited all the captains to give their opinions. It occurred to me that his insistence on seeking the counsel of others was his best quality, yet it was strangely coupled with an inability to take their advice. It was quiet in the temple for a long while, the only noise coming from the clattering of the officers' utensils, but as usual it was Señor Castillo who spoke first. I agree that we should leave this place, he said. But we rushed into Apalache without the proper precautions, so we must learn from our mistake and not rush out of the city without taking the proper precautions.

Rushing? We have been here three weeks, Castillo, the governor said.

How can we trust what the cacique is telling us? He wants us out of his capital, he will say anything to make us leave.

His deputy said the same thing. As well the servant who was caught alongside them. Do you think they all conferred on what to say beforehand? I will remind you that I had them questioned separately.

Señor Castillo looked around him for support. But, although many of the officers agreed with him, none dared to speak so plainly to the governor and all were quite content to let him argue their case and be reprimanded in their place. His voice rose to a higher register. We cannot take their agreement for proof, he said. Remember, all of the prisoners you questioned said that Apalache had great quantities of gold. And now we know this to be untrue. We should indeed return to the coast, but we should not follow the prisoners' advice on how to get there.

I have sent three scouting missions, the governor said, and none found a shorter trail to the ocean.

This is why I warned against letting the ships sail away while we went into the interior.

It is easy to criticize a plan when you do not have to make one. And may I add, Castillo, that your behavior since our landing in this territory has been so contrarian as to verge on the mutinous.

The word hung in the air like an accusation—you could almost see it
in the way the captains shifted in their seats or looked away from Señor Castillo, as if they might be tainted by the allegation.

Señor Dorantes alone came to his friend's defense. Don Pánfilo, Castillo was merely offering his opinion, as you yourself asked.

Reluctantly, Señor Castillo said: Don Pánfilo, it was not my intention to dispute your authority. The decision is yours.

You would do well to remember it, the governor said.

With the charge of mutiny averted, the air shifted again. The commissary picked up a walnut from the bowl at the center of the table and used the handle of his knife to crack it open.

The safest thing to do, Señor Cabeza de Vaca said, is to return to Portillo and walk from there to the port. The chief pilot did say that it was no more than twenty leagues from that point.

But Señor Dorantes objected. No, he said. We do not have enough provisions for a return march.

The treasurer picked up a rabbit bone from his plate and held it up like a piece of evidence. We can hunt, he said. There are deer, rabbit, and fowl all about …

What if the hunt does not yield enough food for everyone in the company? Do you want to see three hundred men fight over the meat? If we want to return to the coast swiftly, we need to have enough rations for six weeks at the very least.

Then what do you suggest, Dorantes?

Find a shorter way to the coast.

The governor smiled. That is why I want to go to Aute, he said. It is only eight days from here. Arm yourselves with patience, I beg you. When we return to the ships, we will continue along the coast until we find an area more appropriate for settlement. And I shall not forget those who have served His Majesty loyally.

The governor looked pointedly at Señor Cabeza de Vaca, seeking his endorsement, but the treasurer kept his eyes on his plate and remained silent, as if he feared supporting this new proposal, only to be proven wrong later and be blamed for its failure. Although there was no great enthusiasm for the plan among the captains, I think they all knew that our situation in Apalache was intolerable: we simply could not stay in the city, surrounded by so many people who wanted it back. The Indians feared muskets and were powerless against them, but our reserves of ammunition were not limitless. What would happen when we ran out?