But Franklin makes himself most popular when he notices that electricity seeks out sharp points, and defeats lightning by placing a pointed iron rod on top of a tower. Franklin being the spokeman for the American rebels, the king of England has decreed that British lightning rods should have rounded tips.
(79)
If He Had Been Born a Woman
Of Benjamin Franklin’s sixteen brothers and sisters, Jane is the one most resembling him in talent and strength of will.
But at the age when Benjamin leaves home to make his own way, Jane marries a poor saddler, who accepts her without dowry, and ten months later bears her first child. From then on, for a quarter of a century, Jane has a child every two years. Some of them die, and each death opens a wound in her breast. Those that live demand food, shelter, instruction, and consolation. Jane spends whole nights cradling those that cry, washes mountains of clothing, bathes stacks of children, rushes from market to kitchen, washes piles of dishes, teaches ABC’s and chores, toils elbow to elbow with her husband in his workshop, and attends to the guests whose rent helps to fill the stewpot. Jane is a devoted wife and exemplary widow; and when the children are grown up, she takes charge of her own ailing parents and of her unmarried daughters and her orphaned grandchildren.
Jane never knows the pleasure of letting herself float in a lake, drifting over the surface hitched to the string of a kite, as Benjamin enjoys doing despite his years. Jane never has time to think, nor allows herself to doubt. Benjamin continues to be a fervent lover, but Jane doesn’t know that sex can produce anything except children.
Benjamin, founder of a nation of inventors, is a great man of all the ages. Jane is a woman of her age, like almost all women of all the ages, who has done her duty on this earth and expiated her share of blame in the Biblical curse. She has done all she could to keep from going mad and sought, in vain, a little silence.
Her case will awaken no interest in historians.
(313)
1778: Philadelphia
Washington
The first among the soldiers is also the most prestigious among the farmers, the swiftest among the horsemen, the best marksman among the hunters. He gives no one his hand, nor lets anyone look him in the eye. No one calls him George. From his mouth come no eulogies, nor any complaints either; and he always sets an example of composure and bravery, no matter his sufferings from ulcers, toothaches, and fevers.
With the help of men and weapons from France, George Washington’s army seizes the city of Philadelphia from British hands. The war for the independence of the United States, blackcoats against redcoats, becomes long and painful.
(224 and 305)
1780: Bologna
Clavijero Defends the Accursed Lands
One of the Jesuits expelled from America, Francisco Javier Clavijero, writes in Italy his Ancient History of Mexico. In four volumes the priest tells the life of a people of heroes, marking the dawn of national and historical consciousness in native-born people who are beginning to call New Spain “Mexico” and already speak the word “fatherland” with pride. The work assumes the defense of America, so much under attack in these years from Paris, Berlin, or Edinburgh: If America had no wheat, neither did Europe have corn … If America had no pomegranates or lemons, now she has them; but Europe never had, has not, and cannot have chirimoyas, avocados, bananas, chicozapotes …
With innocence and passion Clavijero attacks the Encyclopedists who describe the New World as an emporium of abominations. Count Buffon says that in America the skies are miserly and the rains rot the soil; that the lions are bald, small and cowardly and the tapir is a vest-pocket elephant; that over there horses, pigs, and dogs become dwarfs and that the Indians, cold as serpents, have no soul, nor fire for females. Voltaire, too, speaks of hairless lions and men, and Baron Montesquieu explains that warm countries produce despicable peoples. Abbé Guillaume Raynal is offended because in America mountain ranges extend from north to south instead of from east to west as they should, and his Prussian colleague Corneille de Pauw portrays the American Indian as a flabby, degenerate beast. According to de Pauw, the climate over there leaves animals sickly and without tails; the women are so ugly that they are confused with men; and the sugar has no taste, the coffee no aroma.
(73 and 134)
1780: Sangarara
America Burns from Mountains to Sea
Two centuries have passed since the executioner’s blade cleaved the neck of Túpac Amaru, last of the Incas, in the Plaza Mayor of Cuzco. The myth born of his death is now fulfilled. The prophecy is coming to pass: the head rejoins the body and a reborn Túpac Amaru attacks.
José Gabriel Condorcanqui, Túpac Amaru II, enters the village of Sangarara to the music of giant seashells, to cut off the bad government of so many thieving drones who rob the very honey from our combs. Behind his white horse, a desperate army assembles. They fight with slingshots, sticks, and knives, these naked soldiers. They are mostly Indians who spill out their lives in bloody vomit in the depths of Potosí or burn themselves out in workshops and haciendas.
Thunder of drums, clouds of banners, fifty thousand men crowning the sierra: Túpac Amaru, liberator of Indians and blacks, scourge of those who have put us in such a lamentable state of dying, advances and destroys. Messengers at the gallop rouse whole communities to rebellion from the valley of Cuzco to the coasts of Arica and the frontiers of Tucumán, because those who fall in this war are sure of resurrection later.
Many mestizos join the rebellion. Also some Creoles, of European blood but American birth.
(183 and 344)
1780: Tungasuca
Túpac Amaru II
Antonio Oblitas, slave of the magistrate Arriaga, hoisted a strong rope, hangman’s rope, mule’s rope, in the plaza of this town of Tungasuca, and for a whole week the wind rocked the body of Arriaga, boss of Indians, owner of blacks, owner of Antonio.
This hand that paints is the hand that hanged. Antonio Oblitas is painting the portrait of the man who ordered the freedom of all the slaves in Peru. For lack of easel, the board rests against some sacks of corn. Creating color over the rough wood, come and go the brushes of Antonio, hangman of his master, nevermore a slave. Túpac Amaru poses on a horse, out in the open. He is not wearing his usual black velvet jacket or his three-cornered hat. The inheritor of the Incas wears the royal insignias of the son of the sun: like his forebears, on his head the feather headdress and triple crown and hanging tassel; on his breast the golden sun; and in one fist the scepter of authority bristling with barbs. Around the motionless horseman appear scenes of the recent victory against colonial troops. From Antonio’s hand spring little soldiers and puffs of smoke, Indians at war, flames devouring the church of Sangarara and prisoners escaping from the jail.
The painting is born between two battles, during the armed truce. Túpac and his horse have been posing for some time. They are so stony that Antonio wonders if they are breathing. Bright colors spread across the board, very slowly. The painter immerses himself in this long moment of truce. Thus the artist and his model escape from time; stave off, while the work lasts, defeat and death.
(137, 183, and 344)
1780: Pomacanchi
The Workshop Is an Enormous Ship
that sails over American lands, a galley that never stops advancing, propelled night and day by Indians who row toward a port they will never reach. Toward the coast that retreats, the Indians row and row; and the whip wakes them up when sleep overcomes them.
Men and women, children and old people spin, weave, and elaborate cotton and wool in the workshops. The laws promise hours and wages, but the Indians, thrown into these great slave quarters or prisons, only leave them when their burial hour arrives.
South of Cuzco, Túpac Amaru goes about freeing Indians tied to the looms. The winds of the great rebellion deprive viceroys of sleep in Lima, Buenos Aires, and Bogotá.
(170 and 320)
A Colonial Poem: If the Indians Triumph …
… they will make us toil
the way they toil now
and to the extent we despoil now
they will despoil us back.
All of us can expect to lack
house, hacienda, or splendors,
nobody will win honors
and all will nobodies be:
we will belong to Indians free
and they’ll ride herd upon us.
(183)
1781: Bogotá
The Commoners
The archbishop of Bogotá trembles with rage and the leather of his chair groans. His hands, sweetmeat hands, ornamented with rubies and emeralds, clutch his purple robe. The Most Illustrious Don Antonio Caballero y Góngora curses with his mouth full, although he is not eating, for his tongue is as fat as the rest of him.
Outrageous news has come from the town of Socorro. The commoners, people without rank, have risen against the new taxes, and have appointed rich Creoles as captains. Both rich and poor are hit by the taxes, which punish everything from tallow candles to honey, sparing not even the wind: the tax on transient merchants is called the wind sales tax.
In Socorro, city of rocks, the rebellion that the viceroy in Bogotá saw coming has come. It happened one market day, right in the plaza. A plebeian woman, Manuela Beltrán, pulled the decree from the doors of City Hall, tore it to pieces and stamped on it; soon after, the people hurled themselves upon the stores and burned down the jail. Now thousands of commoners, armed with sticks and hoes, are heading for Bogotá beating drums.
Spanish arms collapse in the first battle. The archbishop, who commands more authority than the viceroy, decides to go out and meet the insurrectionists. To deceive them with promises he will march at the head of the court commission. His mule stares at him in panic.
(13 and 185)
1781: Támara
The Plainsmen
Yelling Túpac Amaru’s name, fifteen hundred Indians come galloping from the plains east of the Andes. They seek to gain the cordillera, to join the tide of commoners marching on Bogotá. The governor of the plains flees and saves his neck.
These rebels are Indians of the savannas of rivers that flow into the Orinoco. On the beaches of the Orinoco, where turtles deposit their eggs, they once held their markets. There they gathered, since the remotest of remote times, with the Indians of Guyana and Amazonia, exchanging salt, gold, clay pots, baskets, nets, dried fish, turtle oil, arrow poison, and red dye to protect the naked body from mosquitos. Snail conches were the currency, until Europeans arrived eager for slaves and offered axes, scissors, mirrors, and brandy in exchange for men. Then the Indians began to enslave one another, and to sell their brothers, and every hunter was also hunted; and many died of measles or smallpox.
(121 and 185)
1781: Zipaquirá
Galán
In the village of Zipaquirá the peace treaty is signed. The archbishop dictates it, swears to it by the evangels and consecrates it with a high Mass.
The agreement justifies the rebels. Soon this piece of paper will be cinders, and the rich Creole captains well know it; but they too need to dispel as soon as possible the stunning storm, the supreme disorder of the plebeians, which grow constantly, darkening the skies of Bogotá and threatening wealthy Americans as much as the Spanish crown.
One of the rebel captains refuses to enter the trap. Jose Antonio Galán, who had his baptism of fire in the mulatto battalion of Cartagena, carries on the struggle. He marches from town to town, from one hacienda to another, freeing slaves, abolishing tribute and dividing up lands. Union of the Oppressed Against the Oppressors, proclaims his banner. Friends and enemies call him the Túpac Amaru of Here and Now.
(13 and 185)
Popular Ballad of the Commoners
Let the drumbeats stop
and you, lend an ear
for this is the true ballad
and voice of the commoner:
The goat is pulled toward the hills
and hills toward the sky;
the sky toward God knows where
and right now neither do I.
The rich pull at the poor.
The Indian, worth only a little,
gets pulled by both poor and rich
till he splits right down the middle …
(13)
1781: Cuzco
The Center of the Earth, the House of the Gods
Cuzco, the sacred city, wants to be itself again. The black stones of ancient times, tightly pressed together in loving embrace, victors over the furies of the earth and of man, want to shake themselves loose of the churches and palaces which crush them.
Micaela Bastidas stares down at Cuzco and bites her lips. Túpac Amaru’s wife is looking at the center of the earth, the spot chosen by the gods, from the crest of a hill. Right there, the color of clay and smoke so close that one could touch it, waits the capital of the Incas.
A thousand times Micaela has insisted in vain. The new Inca will not attack. Túpac Amaru, son of the sun, refuses to kill Indians. Túpac Amaru, incarnation of the founder of all life, living promise of resurrection, cannot kill Indians. And it is Indians, under the command of chief Pumacahua, who defend this Spanish bastion.
A thousand times Micaela has insisted, and a thousand times insists, and Túpac is silent. She knows now that there will be a tragedy in the Plaza of Tears, and knows that no matter what, she’ll go on to the end.
(183 and 344)
1781: Cuzco
Dust and Sorrow Are the Roads of Peru
Riddled with bullets, some seated and others prone, they still defended themselves and infuriated us by hurling many stones … Slopes of the sierras, a litter of corpses: among the dead and the spears and the broken banners, the victors pick up here and there a carbine.
Túpac Amaru does not enter the sacred city as a conqueror, heading his tumultuous troops. He enters Cuzco on the back of a mule, loaded with chains which drag over the pavestones. Between two files of soldiers, he goes to the prison. The church bells ring out in a frenzy.
Túpac Amaru had escaped by swimming across the River Combapata and was taken by surprise in an ambush in the town of Langui—sold out by one of his captains, Francisco Santa Cruz, who was also his compadre.
The traitor does not look for a rope to hang himself. He collects two thousand pesos and a title of nobility.
(183 and 344)
1781: Cuzco
Sacramental Ceremony in the Torture Chamber
Bound to the rack, Túpac Amaru lies naked and bloody. The torture chamber of Cuzco’s prison is gloomy and low ceilinged. A shaft of light falls on the rebel chief, violent bruising light. José Antonio de Areche wears a rolled wig and military dress uniform. Areche, representative of the king of Spain, commanding general of the army, and supreme judge, is seated beside the crank. When he moves it, another turn of the rope convulses the arms and legs of Túpac Amaru and stifled groans are heard.
ARECHE: Ah king of kings, little king sold for a contemptible price! Don José I, agent in the pay of the British crown! Money married to the ambition for power … Who should be surprised by the wedding? It’s normal enough … British arms, British money. Why don’t you deny it, eh? Poor devil. (He rises and strokes Túpac Amaru’s head.) The Lutheran heretics have thrown dust in your eyes and a dark veil over your brain. Poor devil. José Gabriel Túpac Amaru, absolute and natural lord of these dominions … Don José I, monarch of the New World! (Unrolls a parchment and reads out loud.) “Don José I, by the grace of God, Inca, King of Peru, Santa Fe, Quito, Chile, Buenos Aires and continents of the southern seas, duke of the Superlative, Lord of the Caesars and Amazons, with dominion in the great Paitití, Commissioner of divine mercy …” (Turns suddenly toward Túpac Amaru.) Deny it! We found this proclamation in your pockets … You promised freedom … The heretics have taught you the evil arts of contraband. Wrapped in the flag of freedom, you brought the crudest of tyrannies. (Walks around the figure bound to the rack.) “They tr
eat us like dogs,” you said. “They skin us alive,” you said. But did you by any chance even pay tribute, you and your fellows? You enjoyed the privilege of using arms and going on horseback. You were always treated as a Christian of pure-blooded lineage! We gave you the life of a white man and you preached race hatred. We, your hated Spaniards, have taught you to speak. And what did you say? “Revolution!” We taught you to write, and what did you write? “War!” (Sits. Turns his back on Túpac Amaru and crosses his legs.) You have laid Peru waste. Crimes, arson, robberies, sacrileges … You and your terrorist henchmen have brought hell to these provinces. So the Spaniards leave the Indians licking the dirt, do they? I have already ordered forcible sales stopped and workshops opened and fair wages paid. I have suppressed tithes and tariffs … Why did you continue the war, if good treatment has been reestablished? How many thousands of deaths have you caused, you sham emperor? How much pain have you inflicted on the invaded lands? (Rises and leans toward Túpac Amaru, who does not open his eyes.) So the labor draft is a crime and of every hundred Indians who go to the mines, twenty return? I have ordered an end to compulsory work. And anyway, wasn’t the detestable labor draft invented by your forebears? The Incas … No one has treated the Indians worse. You blaspheme the European blood that runs in your veins, José Gabriel Condorcanqui Noguera … (Pauses and speaks while encircling the body of the victim.) Your sentence is ready. I conceived it, wrote it, signed it. (His hand cuts the air over Túpac’s mouth.) They will haul you to the scaffold and the executioner will cut out your tongue. They will tie you to four horses by the hands and feet. You will be quartered. (Passes his hand over the bare torso.) They will throw your trunk on the bonfire on Mount Picchú and the ashes in the air. (Touches the face.) Your head will hang from a gallows for three days in the town of Tinta and afterwards will be nailed to a pole at the gate of the town, with a crown of eleven iron spikes, for your eleven titles of emperor. (Strokes Túpac’s arms.) We will send one arm to Tungasuca and the other will be exhibited in the capital of Carabaya. (And his legs.) One leg to the town of Livitaca and the other to Santa Rosa de Lampa. The houses you have lived in will be obliterated. We will throw salt on your lands. Infamy will fall upon your descendants through all the centuries. (Lights a candle and holds it over Túpac Amaru’s face.) You still have time. Tell me: who carries on the rebellion you started? Who are your accomplices? (Wheedling.) You have time. I offer you the gallows. You have time to avoid so much humiliation and suffering. Give me names. Tell me. (Lowers his ear.) You are your own hangman, Indian butcher! (Again sweetens his tone.) We’ll cut out the tongue of your son Hipólito. We’ll cut out the tongue of Micaela, your woman, and garrote her … All right, don’t repent, but save her. Her. Save your wife from an infamous death. (Moves nearer. Waits.) God knows the crimes you must carry with you. (Violently twists the torture crank, and a ghastly cry is heard.) Silence won’t get you anything before the tribunal of the All-Highest, arrogant Indian! (Pityingly.) Oh, it saddens me that a soul chooses to go like that to eternal condemnation … (With fury.) For the last time! Who are your accomplices?
The Memory of Fire Trilogy: Genesis, Faces and Masks, and Century of the Wind Page 43