When Montezuma Met Cortes

by Matthew Restall

  Cortés’s final petition to the king—written from Valladolid in 1544—is illustrative. Began the sixty-year-old marqués,

  Your Sacred, Catholic, Caesarean Majesty: I thought that the labors of my youth would earn me some rest in my old age, and yet I have spent forty years not sleeping, eating badly, or if not badly not well either, always with weapons ready, placing myself in danger, spending my life and property all in the service of God, bringing sheep to their pens in the remotest corners of our hemisphere . . .

  He continued in this vein for pages, lamenting how he achieved so much “without help from anyone,” and despite the obstacles of “the copycats and the covetous bursting like leeches with so much of my blood.” “Defending myself from Your Majesty’s treasurer has been harder than winning the land of the enemy,” leaving him impoverished, strapped with debt, virtually a vagrant, “having to work, without rest in old age, until death.” Not that any of this was “the fault of Your Majesty,” who was “magnanimous and powerful” and had generously so honored Cortés in the past. (The king’s prime minister scribbled at the foot of the petition: “Not to be answered.”)42

  Read with modern eyes, the letter might be seen as a pleading protest from a disappointed, shunned courtier; Prescott found it “touching,” a poignant reminder that “it was possible to deserve too greatly.” Or it might be judged as pathetic and sycophantic, alternating between pomposity and self-pity. In fact, it is all of those things, but they are all beside the point. For if read with an eye to the patronage system, the document is an example of the old conquistador using conventional petitionary language right up to the end, employing the same rhetorical techniques of his peers—playing the Crown’s game, in other words, in ways that were predictable, unoriginal, unexceptional, and (as was often the case) ineffective.43

  And therein lies the crucial point to which this chapter has been leading. We can better understand the Spanish-Aztec War if we accept that Cortés was not the master of the game, but just a player within it (sometimes winning, sometimes losing). Consequently, he was not “the model of calculation, rationality, and control he is so often taken to be.” The word control has been applied to his actions for centuries, not only by his hagiographers but also by those seeking objectivity yet drawn nonetheless by the rhetorical rhythm of his Letters to the king into believing his false claims of masterful manipulation. This myth of Cortesian control has pernicious side effects: it gives shelf life to Cortés’s own boast that “the oeuvre that God did through me was so great and marvelous”; it permits the idea that Cortés had a unique vision, that he had the power to implement that vision; it implies that scores of Spanish and indigenous captains and leaders of all kinds had no agency; finally, it ignores the role played by chaos in the war, thereby helping to deny the war’s very existence as such, turning it into a “carefully calculated military and political exercise,” one man’s brilliant achievement.44

  In reality, decisions were made by numerous individuals—like Xicotencatl of Tlaxcallan, Ixtlilxochitl of Tetzcoco, Pedro de Alvarado, Vásquez de Tapia, and Ordaz—and even more so by councils of noblemen and by groups of captains, by factions and cohorts. Moreover, those decisions were often quick reactions more than considered implementations of strategy, being offset by the chaos and unpredictability of war, and by the need to respond to initiatives by other groups—be they Spanish or indigenous, local or distant. Above all, Nahua leaders played far more decisive roles than the traditional narrative has allowed, and they came closer to being in control—even in localized moments—than Cortés did.

  As for vision, neither Cortés nor the other captains held a unique one, but rather shared the broad Spanish expectation that war with indigenous peoples was inevitable, and that it would lead to their mass enslavement, sexual exploitation, forced conversion, and subordination as pacified residents of encomienda towns and villages; the invaders would become wealthy, city-dwelling holders of encomiendas and various Crown-sanctioned posts and privileges. For the minority who survived the invasion, that expectation would more or less be realized.

  * * *

  In the tiny coastal town of Antigua de la Veracruz (population: nine hundred), Cortés stands with his arm around “Malinche,” staring out into the Gulf of Mexico. The scene is a mural painted on the wall of the Hotel Malinche, a modest inn that is dependent on the occasional Ruta de Cortés (Route of Cortés) tourists. For this was the spot where the Cortés expedition made its first landfall, on April 22, 1519. Here the mythmaking began, as the two histories of the expedition—the traditional narrative and the messy, murky truth—diverged.45

  Without knowing what was on the muralist’s mind, we can imagine which elements of the traditional narrative she may have found inspiring. Perhaps she sought a more romantic version of Orozco’s depiction of Cortés and Malinche (painted in a stairwell of a convent-turned-college in Mexico City), softening the possessive position of the conquistador’s arm in Orozco’s version to suggest a gentler message: Veracruz is for lovers. Or perhaps the lovers’ gaze is wistful, anticipating a future in which the Spaniard sails to Spain without his Nahua interpreter—but with their young son, never to see his mother again. Or perhaps they are to be imagined staring not where ships will sail once more, but where they recently sailed and anchored—before being destroyed on Cortés’s orders; a contemplation, then, of what was missing, and what that meant.

  That mythical act—a burning of the boats, dramatic but invented—was the last of a trio of legendary Cortesian achievements that followed the April 22 landing of the company on the Mexican coast, and, in the traditional narrative, made his successful march to Tenochtitlan possible. The first was the diplomatic manipulation of local rulers and Aztec ambassadors, allowing Cortés to secure supplies and allies for the march inland. The second was the founding of a town, whose new officials then appointed Cortés as their leader, breaking the connection to Velázquez—a legal maneuver usually credited to Cortés. The third, the boat burning, completed a trio that formed a compelling and consistently Cortés-centric story, placing him not only at the heroic center of events but in control of them.

  And yet this trio of triumphs is historical fiction, a mixture of inventions, elisions, and distortions. Cortés was not in control, neither at Veracruz nor in the months that followed.

  These are the essential facts. When the expedition made landfall that April 22, they had already spent two and a half months on the move. (The eleven ships simply traced the route along the Yucatec coast charted by the 1517 and 1518 expeditions, engaging Maya communities with periodic violence; a ship was lost, some Spaniards killed, dozens more wounded; a shipwreck survivor, Gerónimo de Aguilar, was rescued on Cozumel, and a number of indigenous slaves were acquired, including the Nahua girl who became Malintzin.) From their April landfall until the expedition’s march inland, four months passed. During that time, some Spaniards died from their wounds, at least one was hanged as a result of conflict within the conquistador company, a few sailed to Spain, and some seventy more arrived from Cuba. There was considerable factional disagreement. Various exploratory expeditions were made, on land and by sea, along what is now the coastal zone of Veracruz. Three towns were founded (but not built), two with the hopeful name of La Villa Rica de la Vera Cruz (Rich Town of the True Cross, since April 22 was Good Friday). The Totonac town of Cempohuallan (Cempoala) was renamed Seville; its new name did not stick. The Spaniards interacted extensively both with local groups—Nahuas and Totonacs—and with Aztec embassies, starting almost immediately.

  The first embassy sent by Montezuma reached the company on Easter Sunday, less than two days after the landfall. The speedy arrival of that embassy is a clue to exposing the Cortesian lie of his manipulation of local politics. The Aztec leadership had been tracking the expedition as it made its way from Maya country into the territories of the empire (Montezuma had probably known of the Spaniards since 1517, and perhaps since 1513). The diplomatic encounter of Easter Sunday was not
initiated by Cortés nor by any other Spaniard; it was determined by the Aztecs, who brought gifts from Montezuma, provided food and water, and gathered detailed information on the Caxtilteca expedition.46

  According to some accounts, an invitation to visit Tenochtitlan was extended, and refused. This seems plausible. From the Easter Sunday meeting through to the Meeting in Tenochtitlan, Montezuma’s policy was consistently that of the collector—deploying ambassadors and gifts, learning all he could, using loyal subjects and enemy towns alike to test the newcomers as they were lured slowly to his capital. Had the Spanish company been united and resolute, under firm command, and armed with knowledge of the region, they might have accepted that initial invitation. But—contra the claim by Cortés and his biographers—the company was none of those things.

  Deeply divided, under ambiguous and weak leadership, unsure of their purpose, ignorant of their surroundings, the company was at the mercy of indigenous initiatives. Montezuma’s was not the only one. Another embassy also visited the Caxtilteca at their mosquito-infested camp on the beach at Ulúa (renamed Vera Cruz), this one from the Totonac-speaking city-state, centered on Cempohuallan, which was a modest city located up the coast and a little inland. In late June, the company abandoned the failed first Vera Cruz and decamped to Cempohuallan, at the invitation of the Totonacs. There a complex political game was played out by three protagonists: the Totonac leadership, the Spanish captains, and Aztec officials.

  In the traditional narrative, Cortés is the game master, exploiting Totonac resentment of their Aztec overlords to forge a military alliance, to make the Totonacs vassals of the Spanish Crown, and to begin to convert them to Christianity. At the same time, Cortés continues to reassure Montezuma of his friendship, seizing Aztec tribute-collectors in front of the Totonacs, but then secreting them to Spanish ships and later releasing them. But such claims to elaborate Cortesian double-dealing were designed to mask the fact that the Spaniards could not possibly follow Aztec-Totonac political posturing and negotiating. The Spanish captains knew nothing of the historical relationship between Mesoamerican groups, and the Aztec Empire was a vague entity of unknown distance, power, and wealth. The language and culture gaps were immense, with four languages being translated. Although Malintzin was learning Spanish, and there were Nahuatl interpreters among the Totonacs, the company’s initial communication system comprised the captains speaking to Aguilar in Spanish, him translating into Yucatec Mayan to Malintzin, she translating into Nahuatl, and in places like Cempohuallan another interpreter translating into local tongues like Totonac.

  While the Spaniards were operating in the dark, the Totonac leadership and Aztec officials were part of the same world, able to talk around the dangerous but ignorant foreigners and negotiate an outcome that was of potential benefit to both. The Totonacs established a loose alliance with the invaders that did not represent anything close to the capitulation claimed by Cortés. They succeeded in preventing the guests in Cempohuallan from overstaying their welcome, encouraging them to move up the coast to the small town of Quiahuiztlan, where Vera Cruz was again founded; in August, a small contingent of Spaniards stayed there while the majority marched inland toward Tenochtitlan—accompanied by Totonac warriors, who could report back to Cempohuallan and fight on whatever side seemed to be winning. The Aztecs, for their part, were able to prevent a full-scale regional revolt without having to dispatch an army, while also succeeding in drawing the invaders toward Montezuma. To where did the Spanish-Totonac force march in August, and why? As we shall see shortly, the answer reveals indigenous actors, not Spaniards, continuing to play the leading roles.

  Meanwhile, as the Spaniards struggled to understand indigenous motives and regional politics, they were also fighting among themselves. Throughout these four months, there was constant squabbling, fractious negotiating, and periodic violence as the company’s many factions (“conquistadors-in-waiting”) shuffled and jostled for position. The disputes centered on pretty much everything—where they should go, who should lead, how best to acquire food and gold, how the spoils should be divided, how they could ensure royal reward when all was said and done. But one issue in particular tended to split the men into two sides. Should they return to Cuba or continue exploring the mainland? Returning meant honoring the orders given by Velázquez, and thus remaining loyal to him and, by extension, the king; staying meant violating the governor of Cuba’s mandate, necessitating an alternative strategy to ensure that disloyalty to the governor would not be construed as disloyalty to the king. The line dividing the two sides was not clearly drawn, with men switching back and forth as smaller factions shifted and the company’s prospects rose and fell.47

  The messy reality of conquistador bickering and indecision, as weeks turned to months, while the company had barely left the Gulf coast, is disguised in the traditional narrative behind a spectacular Cortés-Gómara lie: that Cortés convinced the company to found a town and elect a town council (a cabildo); that body then declared the Velázquez-mandated expedition over, and, in the name of the king, launched a new expedition and appointed Cortés as their captain-general (an invented theatrical moment that illustrators seldom resisted; an example is in the Gallery). The truth was so obvious that Bernal Díaz blurted it out: the plan was hatched by the dominant group of captains. Díaz was eager to place himself at the center of the group, which was surely unlikely. But in doing so he plausibly identified many of the captains who hatched the plan—Puertocarrero, Olid, Ávila, Escalante, Lugo, and the five Alvarado brothers.

  At least half a dozen documents were composed, signed, and sent to Spain over the next six months, revealing a clear agenda and commitment on the part of a core faction of captains. The first, a petition written on Ulúa island on June 20 (and only recently discovered hiding in plain sight in the imperial archives in Seville), identified Puertocarrero, Montejo, Olid, Pedro de Alvarado, Alonso de Martín, and Alonso de Grado as the six councilors of the (as yet, imaginary) new town; Francisco Alvarez Chico acted as agent for the town, and Pedro’s brother Gonzalo was the first to sign—followed by almost the entire company (318 signatures survive on the document, damage to which has erased probably a hundred or more). Another document, written a fortnight later and charging Puertocarrero and Montejo to represent the company’s interests in Spain, was signed by Ávila, Olid, Grado, Vásquez de Tapia, Sandoval, and Diego de Godoy. Puertocarrero, Montejo, Ávila, and Grado put their names to a third letter, composed a week later and offering a narrative of the expedition thus far (in which Velázquez appeared as motivated by greed and personal profit, in contrast to Cortés’s and the company’s desire to serve the Crown).48

  These captains formed the loose leadership of the company that would march inland at summer’s end. The language of the documents they sent to Spain—statements to which almost all the company hitched their prospects—was very clear. In the first, for example, the king and his mother, Queen Juana, were asked

  not to benefit Diego Velázquez with any responsibility or profit of any kind from this region, nor grant it to him, both because of the harm and prejudice that all of us here would receive and because it is obvious that [we have] settled, and chosen a judge in Your Majesty’s name, and offered this land to your royal crown—land where Diego Velázquez would work and strive hard to damage in any way possible those people involved in it; and if he were to come to this region, nobody would escape being hurt and thrown out as people who did not want to do what he wanted, but rather to serve your Highnesses as your vassals should . . .

  The other documents written that summer were equally and consistently blunt in their factional partisanship and their open declaration of loyalty to the king—in the form of a collective commitment to a company that should be, and they hoped would be, licensed to Cortés, not Velázquez. These records were exactly what they purported to be (and not artifices, ghostwritten by Cortés). As his father, don Martín, wrote to the king’s Council of the Indies a year later, “some four hu
ndred men . . . having founded a town . . . elected and named for among themselves alcaldes and regidores and other council officers and named Hernando Cortés as governor and chief magistrate of the land.” Don Martín’s letter was highly partisan, but that statement captured a simple truth.49

  As for Cortés’s own ambiguous involvement in the plan, Díaz managed to convey it well (despite his usual contradictions of tone and narrative). He seemed to recognize that the captains needed Cortés to be captain-general (as Velázquez had appointed him thus, thereby minimizing the rebellious potential of their plan), while Cortés was in turn unlikely to oppose his reappointment by the captains: “Cortés agreed to it, although he pretended to need much pleading; as the saying goes: ‘You beg me to do what I already want to do.’”50

  Las Casas also spotted the implausible lie in the traditional narrative, suggesting, like Díaz, the obvious truth (despite the fact that he was keen to demonize Cortés as an illegitimate leader). Referring to the rebellion against Velázquez from its inception in Cuba, the friar asked:

  How could these ship captains be excused from being participants in this rebellion of Cortés’s? Alonso Hernández Puertocarrero, Francisco de Montejo, Alonso de Ávila, Pedro de Alvarado, Juan Vázquez, and Diego de Ordáz had been named by Velázquez as captains of the other ships, and it is unlikely that they were ignorant of Cortés’s dealings. . . . It hardly seems credible that these captains could claim ignorance of the deceit.51

  In other words, the majority of the captains and the men in their cohorts saw that the Velázquez commission limited their ability to conquer, profit, and claim reward. There is no reason, or evidence, for assigning credit entirely or even mostly to Cortés. As Ogilby put it,

  finding themselves to have fall’n upon an Adventure that was certainly rich and good, and having got such looting and interest in the Countrey already, by their Success and Victories, and chiefly by their Confederacy with so many of the Natives and People of the Countrey, revolted to them, did almost at first, by a general consent, renounce their Commission, and dependency upon Velasquez, and profess’d to act immediately from and for the King of Spain.52