The incident was important to Garcilaço in that when the esteemed post of army-master fell vacant, Coronado weighed the matter only a few moments before appointing Cárdenas to fill it, and now the boy tended the twelve horses of the second-in-command, the bravest, wildest fighter of them all.
Shortly thereafter, Garcilaço discovered how his attitudes had changed, for a side expedition to what is now California was arranged under the direction of a real fighting man, Melchor Díaz, who was instructed to intercept a Spanish ship sailing up the coast with supplies for Coronado. Once Garcilaço had dreamed only of adventure on the Pacific, but now that he had a new opportunity to visit that great ocean he turned his back, for he wished to stay with Cárdenas on his quest for honor.
As an advance party now entered upon those vast wastelands in what would later be Arizona, Garcilaço’s fears for his father increased, because the boy knew that the friar’s gross lies must soon be uncovered. And when horses began to die of exhaustion and men to faint from the burdens they bore, the leaders of the expedition began to glare at Marcos, as if to say ‘Monk, where is this paradise you told us of?’ And Coronado himself came to the rear, where Marcos had hidden: ‘Good Friar, how many days to Cíbola? We perish.’ And as Garcilaço tended his horses nearby, he heard Marcos swear: ‘Three more days, General. I promise.’ And the boy shuddered, for he knew that the friar had not the slightest idea where they were.
But once more luck seemed to rescue Marcos from a crisis, for on 7 July 1540, one hundred and thirty-seven days after departing Compostela, a Spanish horseman riding well ahead wheeled his horse and came galloping back: ‘Cíbola! The Seven Cities! Yonder!’
All pressed forward, each wanting to be first among his fellows to see the golden cities, but when a group gained a prominence its members fell silent, and a vast sigh rose from the men as they saw the pitiful scene, a shabby collection of dirty houses, a mud-walled nothing.
‘Madre de Dios!’ Cárdenas whispered.
Captain Melgosa, standing by the general, muttered: ‘I’ve seen single houses in Castilla that were bigger than this … and richer, no doubt.’
Finally Coronado spoke: ‘Where is Fray Marcos?’ and when the trembling friar was dragged forth, the captain-general asked in a very low voice: ‘Good Friar, is this what you saw? Is this your Cíbola covered with turquoise and silver? Are these hovels bigger than in Mexico City?’ And before Marcos could respond, the various captains began cursing and shouting: ‘Send him back.’ ‘Get rid of this one.’ ‘He is a great liar and not to be trusted.’
But it was Cárdenas who voiced the true complaint: ‘I do not want this one praying over me, telling me what to do,’ and Marcos would have been sent back that night except that he was needed for an important ritual without which the army could not proceed.
It was the Requerimiento (Requisition), issued decades earlier by King Ferdinand himself, who had laid down the basic edict that no Spanish army could attack an Indian settlement until this famous statement of religious principle had been recited ‘in a loud, clear voice.’
It was a remarkable document, devised by the religious and civil leaders of Spain during the early years of conquest when thoughtful men struggled with the moral problem of how to deal with pagan Indians. Indeed, conquest itself had been halted for three years until agreement could be reached as to whether Indians were human or not. Finally, after much soul-searching, a statement was prepared and verified by churchmen and lawyers; it offered Indians, who were acknowledged as humans the blessings of Christianity and the protection of the crown, but only if acceptance was immediate. If the Indians hesitated, as they always did, conversion by the sword was justified.
Since the army was now within the shadow of Cíbola, Coronado summoned Marcos to read the Requerimiento, but when the friar stepped forward to take the parchment, Cárdenas objected strenuously: ‘If he reads it, our enterprise will be cursed!’ and he seized the document, handing it to another Franciscan, but Coronado intervened: ‘Marcos is still the senior, let him proceed.’ So the friar took the parchment, held it close to his face, and read aloud. But no Indian in the distant town could possibly have heard the muffled words, much less understood them even had they been audible.
It was just as well, because the Requerimiento was interminably long, with a jumbled theology which would confuse anyone not an ordained priest. It started by explaining how Adam and Eve launched the human race five thousand years ago and how different nations developed:
‘Of all these nations God our Lord gave charge to one man, called St. Peter, that he should be Lord and Superior of all the men in the world, that all should obey him, and that he should be head of the whole human race … to judge and govern all Christians, Moors, Jews, Gentiles and all other sects.’
The friar read on, explaining to the distant Indians how St. Peter had begun the line of popes who commanded the world, and of how a later pope had asked King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella of Spain for help in ruling certain areas. Then Marcos came to the two parts the soldiers understood: if the Indians immediately accepted the Holy Catholic Faith, great rewards would be forthcoming, but if they stubbornly refused:
‘I certify to you that, with the help of God, we shall forcibly enter your country and shall make war against you in all ways and manners … we shall take your wives and your children, and shall make slaves of them … and shall do all the harm and damage that we can … and the deaths and losses which shall accrue from this will be your fault …’
Fray Marcos rolled up his parchment, returned it, and announced: ‘The Requerimiento has been faithfully read. All can testify to that.’ The generous offer of peace had been tendered, but there was no response.
‘Friar,’ Coronado asked, ‘are we legally free to attack?’ and Marcos replied so that all the captains could hear: ‘Jesus Christ commands you to do so!’ and battle began.
It was a violent encounter, and Coronado’s bright suit of armor flashed in the sun so invitingly that the Indians on the city walls threw down huge chunks of stone that knocked him from his white horse, leaving him defenseless and immobile on the ground.
More rocks came crashing down and would have killed him had not Cárdenas, in an act of spontaneous heroism, thrown himself across the fallen body and absorbed most of the blows. When Garcilaço saw this valiant act, he dropped down and shielded Coronado’s head, and was struck by four rocks which otherwise could have brained the commander.
Bruised, cut in three places so badly that his bloody wounds were apparent to all, Garcilaço listened that night to one of the sweetest sounds a man can hear: praise for having behaved well in battle. ‘He was as brave as a tested infantryman,’ Melgosa cried, but the moment the boy cherished came when Cárdenas, himself badly wounded, took his hand: ‘I could not have saved him without you.’ When the boy was alone, he whispered to himself: ‘Now I know what honor is.’
With Coronado confined to a litter because of his wounds, Cárdenas assumed command, and his first decision was loudly voiced: ‘Fray Marcos must leave this army. He contaminates it.’ Melgosa wanted him shot, but Cárdenas said contemptuously: ‘Let him go. He carries his punishment with him.’
From his sickbed Coronado accepted this recommendation and added: ‘Let the boy go with him, whoever he is,’ but now Cárdenas became a defender: ‘Captain, this boy helped save your life. And he’s no liar, like his so-called father,’ so it was agreed that Marcos must go but Garcilaço could stay.
This decision caused the boy much confusion, for he loved Fray Marcos and did not want to leave him in his hour of disgrace. ‘I cannot fail him now,’ he told Coronado, and the captain-general growled: ‘Good. Go with him,’ for he saw Garcilaço only as part of Fray Marcos and wished him gone, too.
But Cárdenas and Melgosa were disgusted when they heard of the boy’s decision, and they took him aside, with Cárdenas saying bluntly: ‘Loyalty is a fine thing, lad, but loyalty to a condemned man must be weighed carefully.’
To Garcilaço, honor was much simpler: ‘I must stay with Marcos,’ and he left the two officers, who called after him that he was being a fool. However, when Garcilaço reached his father, who was packing his mule for the long march back to Mexico City, Marcos took him in his arms, eyes wet with tears, and cried: ‘I cannot let you damage your life. Stay with the army you have grown to love.’
‘Without you I’d have no army. I’m your son, and I shall stay with you.’
At these words Marcos clasped the boy tightly and sobbed: ‘I’ve ruined everything. Did you hear the curses they heaped on me?’ He stood clinging to Garcilaço, then said in hushed voice, as if he were seeing a vision: ‘But the Cities are there. The walls of gold will be found, just as I said.’ And with that he shouted: ‘Army-Master Cárdenas! Come take your little soldier!’ and thrusting the boy away, he started his mournful exile.
Garcilaço was not given time to brood about Fray Marcos’ disgrace, for as soon as Coronado recovered from his wounds he dispatched an elite group of twenty-five to make a swift, galloping exploration of lands to the west, and Cárdenas, in command, took the boy along. Now Garcilaço had an opportunity to see what a masterful soldier Cárdenas was, for he anticipated everything: where to find water, how many deer to kill for food, in what safe place to camp. ‘I would like to be a soldier like you,’ the boy said, and Cárdenas smiled: ‘You could never be an officer like me, but you could serve, and honorably.’ When Garcilaço asked why he could not attain command, Cárdenas told him truthfully: ‘Command is reserved for those born in Spain.’ He did not add ‘Of white parentage,’ but he intended the boy to catch that nuance of Spanish life.
Twenty hot and thirsty days later Garcilaço was riding ahead of the file when he stopped, gasped, and held up his hand to warn the others.
‘Look!’ he whispered, and when Cárdenas drew up he said in reverence: ‘Dear Jesus, you have worked a miracle.’ And one by one the others moved into line, there at the edge of a tremendous depression, and fell silent. It was a moment of overwhelming discovery, a moment that no one could absorb or summarize in speech.
At their feet opened a canyon so grand, they knew of nothing with which to compare it. A mile deep, mile upon mile across, with a tiny ribbon of river wandering at the bottom, its walls were multicolored, shimmering with gold and red and blue and dancing green. Lovely trees, bent from the wind, adorned its rim and sometimes tried to creep down the sides, their tall crowns like tiny tips of fern, so far away they were. And as the afternoon sun moved across the deep gash of the canyon, it threw weird shadows upon pinnacles far below, and new colors emerged as if some great power were redecorating what was already a masterpiece.
‘A miracle!’ Cárdenas gasped. ‘God has prepared this wonder to show us His power.’ They had discovered the Grand Canyon of the Colorado, and Garcilaço felt himself growing inches taller when Army-Master Cárdenas said with affection, as he ruffled the boy’s hair: ‘Remember, this one found it. Let’s christen it El Cañon de Garcilaço.’ There was cheering, but in the midst of the celebration the boy looked eastward, for he could not forget that the true adventure still waited there, in what Cabeza had described as the land of many lands.
Cárdenas and his swift-marching men required three months for this trip to the canyon, and when they rejoined the main party they found that it had acquired a stranger, to whom Garcilaço took an instant dislike. This man, in his thirties, was a good-looking Indian whose height, facial tattooing and turban headdress identified him as belonging to some tribe far from Cíbola, perhaps a Pawnee from north and east. He had been captured by the Zuñi of Cíbola in a raid years ago and was now a slave, except that he seemed more clever than those who held him. He had a glib manner, a sly, knowing look, and Garcilaço often saw him calculating how to play this white captain off against that Indian chief, and it was clear that he did not propose to stay a slave indefinitely.
He was called El Turco, and nothing else, because the soldiers who found him thought that he looked the way a Turk should, although none had ever seen one, and if the boy intuitively disliked El Turco, the Indian reciprocated with intensity, for he saw in Garcilaço the kind of innocent intelligence which might quickly pierce the lies he was about to tell. El Turco had but one ambition, and everything else was subservient to it: trick Coronado into marching toward the empty east, where his army would perish in the desolate wastelands. When confusion was at its peak, he would escape and travel north to his home village of Quivira, whose valleys and running streams he remembered each night of his captivity.
And the tales he told! He started cautiously, for like Fray Marcos, whom he resembled in certain ways, he always wanted to know first what the Spaniards hoped for; then he tailored his reports to please them. For example, after listening closely to every word the soldiers spoke he learned that coins were of extreme value, but he had never seen one. Cautiously he began: ‘We have coins, you know.’ When pressed as to what form his coins took, he guessed blindly: ‘Colored stones,’ and then withdrew into his shell as the Spaniards ridiculed him. To demonstrate how foolish he was, the men showed him coins of silver and gold, and in that instant those two metals became part of his arsenal.
To a different group of soldiers he said casually one day, using signs and grunts and a smattering of Spanish words: ‘In my land the great chief has a staff made of something that glistens in the sunlight … yellowish … very heavy.’ He did not at this time mention the word gold, nor did he again refer to the chief’s staff, but he could almost see his rumors whirling about the camp, so that when Cárdenas came casually by to ask, as if the question were totally unimportant, ‘In your land, have you any hard things like this?’ as he tapped on his steel sword, the Indian said: ‘Oh, yes! But in my tribe only our big chiefs are allowed to own it. Glistens in the sunlight … yellowish … very heavy.’
At first Cárdenas affected not to have noticed the description, but later he asked in his offhand manner: ‘Your big chiefs, do they have much of the …’ He tapped his steel again.
‘Much, much!’ And both men left it there.
Two members of the army were aware that Cárdenas had been trapped by this clever manipulator: El Turco knew it, and so did Garcilaço. Reporting to his master after evening meal one night, Garcilaço said: ‘Captain, El Turco is a great liar.’
‘You should know something about that.’
‘I do. My father Marcos lied because he dreamed of doing good. El Turco lies to do something bad.’
‘He’s told us about gold in his land, and that’s what we’ve come north to find.’
‘Captain, he did not tell us about gold. We told him about it.’ And he tried to explain how El Turco never told them anything but what they had already betrayed as their need or interest. But Cárdenas and the others wanted to believe El Turco, and they did.
El Turco also impressed the Spaniards by making shrewd guesses about the past and future, the kind of clever nonsense any reasonably observant person could make, but when some of them proved true, and the Spaniards asked how he had gained this power of clairvoyance, he said slyly: ‘Sometimes the devil comes to visit with me, telling me what will happen.’
When Coronado heard about this he became intensely interested, for he had always suspected that the devil hovered near his army, and since it was essential that the Spaniards know what El Turco was up to, Coronado kept close watch on him. One night, as the general was passing where the prisoner was kept, he heard El Turco talking with the devil, who was hiding in a jug.
‘Devil, are you in there?’ El Turco whispered, tapping on the jug.
‘You know I am. What do you want?’
‘Where do you want me to lead them?�
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‘Take them anywhere but Quivira in the east,’ the devil said, ‘because if they march there, they’ll find all that gold I’ve collected. They must not have it.’
‘Where shall I lead them?’
‘To the north. Get them lost in that emptiness.’
‘I shall do so, Prince of Evil.’
‘If you keep them away from the east, I’ll reward you.’ And with those clever word El Turco tricked Coronado into going east toward nothingness.
Seeking to have his army in the best possible condition for the march, Coronado decided that if his men had to fight in winter, they would require three hundred sturdy cloaks, which he ordered the villages of the area to provide. When this proved impossible, for there was no surplus, the soldiers went on a rampage, stopping any Indian they encountered and ripping from his shoulders the cloak he was wearing. In this rough way they collected their three hundred, and also the enmity of the owners.
During the confusion, a Spanish cavalryman whose name was known but never disclosed because of the great guilt that lay upon him, went to a quiet part of one village, summoned an Indian to hold his horse, went inside the pueblo, climbed to an upper room, and raped the man’s wife. In order to avert trouble, Coronado ordered all his mounted soldiers to line up with their horses so that the husband could identify the culprit, and since the husband had held the horse for nearly half an hour, he could easily identify it, but the owner denied that he had been in that part of the village and the wronged husband got no satisfaction.
Next day the enraged Indians assaulted the Spaniards in a most effective way. They stole many of their horses and drove them into an enclosed area where the animals had to run in wild circles. Then the Indians, screaming with delight, proceeded to kill them with arrows.
Furious, Coronado summoned Cárdenas, and ordered: ‘Surround the village and teach them a lesson.’ After Cárdenas had disposed his troops in a circle that enclosed the pueblos, he directed two captains, Melgosa and López, to perform an extremely hazardous action: ‘Break into those tall houses where the lower floors are not defended. Fight your way to the roof, and shoot down into the streets.’ As Melgosa started toward his assignment he called: ‘Little Fighter, come along,’ and with no hesitation Garcilaço did.
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