Aztec Rage

by Gary Jennings

  “They’re mindless savages!” Allende shouted.

  “Savages?” Hidalgo’s voice rose. “Do you forget the atrocities of Cortés and the conquistadors? Do you forget three hundred years of cruelty visited upon these people in the name of gold and God?” Hidalgo’s voice became conciliatory but firm. “Ignacio, I share your concern. We both gave our word that no people would be attacked or their property plundered. But look around you. We are now in the third town since our announcement to drive the gachupines back to Spain. Our cry for soldiers has been answered . . . how many do we have? Ten thousand? Twenty thousand? How many of those comprise our criollo class? A couple hundred? Less than one out of a hundred who have answered the call?”

  “They’ll join us when they see we’re victorious.”

  Hidalgo reached across and grabbed Allende’s arm. “Amigo, we won’t be victorious unless we have soldiers. The viceroy has eight, ten thousand trained troops at his disposal? In all likelihood, he’s already ordered those regiments to march on us. Soon we’ll be in the battle of our lives. And those indios whom you despise will do the fighting . . . and the dying.”

  The argument between the two leaders stayed with me as I found shelter for Marina, Raquel, and myself in a convent. The nuns welcomed us inside the gate as added protection. It had to be explained that Marina wasn’t our servant.

  I could see that the padre and the military officer were not brothers under the skin. Hidalgo was a true man of the people, a visionary who supported independence and a free society open to all races, religions, and classes. But Allende was a type I knew well: the caballero. Horses, fancy clothes—especially military uniforms—señoritas, big houses, all the trappings of an aristocrat. Like me, Allende had been educated more in the saddle than between the pages of books. He saw the insurrection as a military exercise—raise an army, beat the viceroy’s army, declare a new nation—one in which he would drive the gachupines back to Spain, installing criollos in their place.

  The padre burned with a vision of justice for all. Hidalgo saw the revolt not simply in terms of military tactics but as a personal promise to free exploited people from their bondage and forge a nation of equals.

  I suspected that Allende bided his time until the day when he and other criollos could seize the fruits of the revolt. He had no other choice; the Aztecs, not his beloved criollos, would carry the insurrection on their backs and win or lose it with their blood, and they would neither flock to him nor obey him.

  The criollo officers had lost control. Not even Napoleon himself could forge an army from this vast multitude of indios, not without time and money. What would happen when they encountered trained troops? Would they turn and run at the first volley of cannon fire and musket fire, as Allende feared? Or was the padre’s estimation of the courageous, spirited Aztecs correct: they would fight and die for the cause?

  On our march to Celaya from San Miguel, Padre Miguel Hidalgo was proclaimed captain-general of America. Ignacio Allende was made lieutenant-general. Juan de Aldama was third in command, with militia officers who had joined the rebellion assuming other field-grade commands. Warrior-priests walked at the head of the army carrying banners of the Virgin. Drummers kept up a beat, though none but a few trained soldiers marched to its cadence.

  Two days out of San Miguel the padre summoned me, and I met him at the head of the column. We rode together out of hearing range from the others.

  “I understand you have declined a commission as an officer,” Hidalgo said.

  I shrugged. “That’s for men who seek command and glory.”

  I didn’t tell him that I knew Allende and the other criollo officers neither trusted me nor wanted me in their ranks. To them, I was still half-bandido, a peon who had humiliated and even killed their fellow criollo Spaniards.

  “I didn’t think you would take it. You aren’t the type to enjoy barking orders . . . or taking them. I think of you more as a lobo, a lone wolf, than a peacock.”

  I laughed. He had read my thoughts: I’d thought of the criollo officers with their fancy uniforms as peacocks. I only considered a few of them good fighters. Even with his fancy uniform, Allende was mucho hombre and a tough soldier.

  “You don’t believe in this revolution, do you, Juan?”

  I hesitated before answering him. “I don’t know what I believe in.”

  “I know you said earlier that you would fight for your friends. But now that you have seen this army of Aztecs who dream of liberty, has your heart opened to accept them, too?”

  “I’ve been through so much, heard so many stories even about myself, I don’t know what is true and constant, but you’ve been my friend as have Raquel and Marina. When the time comes, I’ll stand by you three, even at the risk of my life. But if you ask me whether I’d give my life for the criollo officers and the indios, the answer is no. As long as any of you three are with the revolution, I will be beside you. Otherwise, this fight has no meaning to me.”

  “I’m honored that you would fight at my side. But I want you to know that if your life must be given, I don’t want it lost for me but for the people of New Spain.”

  He was right: I was a lone wolf. Maybe it was because I grew up unloved. For whatever reason, I traveled light . . . and alone.

  “I’ve had many opportunities to observe you,” Hidalgo continued. “In many ways, you’re wiser than me.” He waved away my protests. “No, no. I’m not talking about the books you’ve read but the life you’ve led. The rest of us have spent our lives in the Bajío, within shouting distance of towns like Guanajuato and San Miguel. You have seen more of the colony than any of us and have twice crossed a great ocean and fought against the finest troops in the world.”

  “I was in a couple of guerrilla actions, padre—”

  “What do you think this is? Don’t let the size of the army fool you. We have less training and are more poorly equipped than anything in Spain. No, you have one talent that Allende envies, and every man in the army would also if they knew you possessed it.”

  I frowned. “What’s that, padre?”

  “Survival. You escaped a death sentence from the viceroy’s men half a dozen times, evaded the clutches of a crazed Mayan king, slipped the hangman’s noose in Cádiz, and dodged French bullets in Barcelona only to return to New Spain, flee Méjico City, and now help lead a rebel army. You have prevailed in wars, not skirmishes.”

  “My ability to survive is directly related to my ability to duck and run,” I said, laughing.

  “Whatever it is, you have a singular ability to blend in here and there, then come back alive. That’s why I want you to spy.”

  I shot him a sharp look. A spy? Spies got worse treatment than traitors when captured.

  “I want you to organize and lead a small, select group who can provide us with critical intelligence. We’re marching on Celaya and Guanajuato. I need to know their battle plans. Soon the viceroy’s armies will attack us from several different directions. I must know the movements and the tactics of those armies, too. After Guanajuato we must take Méjico City.” He gave me a sideways glance. “What do you say, Señor Lobo, will you be my eyes and ears among the enemy?”

  “Señor Captain-General, I will serve you until they rip the tongue from my mouth or the eyes from my head.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  I rode away from the army to have some solitude and ponder what I had gotten myself into. Another fine mess, no? I could already see Señora Fortuna grinning at my impertinence. But I was sincere when I said I would fight for my amigos. I wouldn’t leave Marina and Raquel to the mercy of the viceroy’s armies if and when the insurrection turned bad. Nor could I turn my back on the padre, whom I had begun not only to admire but revere.

  When I returned to the two women, I gave them a haughty stare. “When I come into your presence, señoritas, I expect you to salute me as your commanding officer.”

  They exchanged looks.

  “Ah, I see,” Marina
said, “you’ve been made a general, no? Well I have news for you, Señor General, the only man I ever saluted was my husband, and that was when I bid him good-bye after a jealous husband shot him.”

  “You two will have to learn respect if you want to work for me.”

  “What do you mean, work for you?” Marina asked.

  “You want to be secret agents, don’t you? I’m the padre’s chief spy and spymaster.”

  Raquel gasped. “The two of us spies? You mean scouting the viceroy’s armies?”

  “Whatever it takes. Raquel, you will return to Méjico City, pretend to be loyal to the gachupines and keep your eyes and ears open. What you learn about troop movements and defenses of the city, you’ll send the information to me by messenger. You must find friends you trust to carry the messages.”

  She squealed. “Has there ever been a female spy?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know, but before you get too overjoyed, remember that if you get caught, you’ll curse your mother for giving you birth.”

  “What of me?” Marina asked.

  “The padre will need information about the defenses of Guanajuato and the road ahead.”

  “I’m to go to Celaya and Guanajuato and spy?”

  “We will spy. I’m known in Guanajuato, but now a beard covers my face. Besides, who would suspect that Juan de Zavala, caballero and hacendado, is in town when all they see is a poor Aztec with his donkey and wife? He rides the donkey while his hardworking wife trudges behind, carrying his goods when she is not making his tortillas or finding a pulquería so he can quench his thirst.”

  EIGHTY-SIX

  Celaya

  MARINA AND I arrived in Celaya midday on the following day, hours ahead of the army. I had expected to find barricades and armed troops challenging the entry of anyone who ventured toward the city, but the opposite was true: There were no defenses. We arrived in time to see the regimental commanders and most of their troops evacuating the city.

  “The militia and the gachupines are abandoning the city.”

  “Some people are taking up arms,” she pointed out.

  Criollos and their servants were setting up a barricaded corridor near the town square.

  Rumors covering every possible scenario raced through the city. Many believed the rebels would rape the city and murder everyone. Others claimed only the gachupines would be harmed. Some said the Virgin Herself led the army, and no one would be harmed.

  The only accurate intelligence I had to report to the padre concerned the futility of resistance, and the wildfire resistance could ignite.

  “There’s a small force of brave criollos willing to fight for the city, a few dozen. If they fire a volley, I fear what our troops will do.”

  The question I left hanging in the air was whether the indios would run or rape the city.

  The padre was relieved that the viceroy’s troops had fled, but Allende was not. “I had hoped for the opportunity to address them and get them to join us,” Allende said.

  The padre woke me after midnight with a written message that I was to carry to the city’s administrators, the ayuntamiento.

  “Delivering terms of surrender,” the padre said, “can be a lethal assignment. They sometimes shoot the messenger.”

  I shrugged off the danger. From what I had seen of the city’s panic, I believed the town fathers would welcome a peaceful surrender.

  I was shocked, however, at the language of the message to the city fathers:

  We have approached this city with the object of securing the persons of all the European Spaniards. If they surrender with discretion, their persons will be treated humanely. But should they offer resistance, and give the order to fire upon us, we shall treat them with corresponding rigor. May God protect your honors for many years.

  Field of Battle, September 19,

  1810

  Miguel Hidalgo

  Ignacio Allende

  P.S. The moment that you give the order to fire upon our troops, we will behead the seventy-eight Europeans we have in our custody.

  Miguel Hidalgo

  Ignacio Allende

  As the padre walked me to my horse, he said, “I’m saddened that I must behave barbarically while I wear the uniform of a soldier, but I am not the first man of God who had to take up the sword. Now that I have my own war to fight, I find myself more tolerant and understanding of a pope who sends an army to the Holy Land, knowing that thousands will die, many of them innocents.”

  He squeezed my arm. “Please tell them in the strongest terms that they must surrender the city without firing a shot. If fighting erupts, I may not be able to control the army.”

  In the predawn hours of September 20, I delivered the message to the alcalde.

  “We need the response, pronto,” I told him, after emphasizing the gravity of the situation.

  “We must meet and confer,” he responded.

  I pointed at the steeple of a church. “Señor if there is any doubt in your mind, go to the top of that tower and open your eyes.”

  I left, wondering if a nervous trigger finger would fire a musket ball into my back.

  My suggestion to study us from a high tower was a good one; the city officials would see campfires by the thousands, underscoring the scope of the danger they faced. Allende had ordered that the fires remain lit until an hour after the message was delivered.

  Finally, a messenger emerged from the city around midday and announced they would permit entry without a struggle. They asked for time to “prepare” for the entry, and the padre gave them until the next day.

  “What do they prepare for?” I asked the padre.

  “They need time to hide their treasures,” he said. “I don’t blame them. And we need the day to organize a crude chain of command to prevent looting and to obtain supplies. With every passing hour, our ranks swell, increasing our need for food and weapons.” He shook his head. “It’s an almost insurmountable task.”

  We entered the city the next day. I was in the vanguard with Hidalgo, Allende, and Aldama. The lower classes cheered our arrival, but the criollos mostly stayed out of sight.

  As we came into the main square, I looked up and saw a man on the top of a municipal building. Amid the cheers, I barely heard the shot but saw black-powder smoke billow from the gun. I don’t know where the bullet hit, but the next moment all hell broke loose. Our people began returning fire for no discernible purpose since the person was already gone. Still the guns boomed, as did the passions of the Aztecs.

  Surging in all directions, our indios looted as they had in San Miguel, but this time none of us, not even the padre, could stop them. They were too numerous and moved in too many directions. Allende tried to keep order. Galloping into the crowd, he slashed down with his sword at men breaking down the front gate of a house. His horse slipped on cobblestones and went down. I urged my own mount toward him. Clearing a path of indios away, I gave him a chance to remount, perhaps saving his life.

  He drew his pistol, and I yelled at him, “No, it’s no use. If you shoot, they’ll tear you to pieces.”

  Frustrated, he galloped off, but not out of fear. He knew if the indios turned on him, the rebellion would be lost. A man of incontrovertible courage, he would have willingly gone down fighting had it served his purpose.

  I averted my eyes from the savagery as I rode away. A single shot had ignited a riot in a small town. What would happen when we reached Guanajuato, the largest city in the region—and actual fighting erupted? ¡Ay! a beast had been unleased, a wild thing that no one would be able to control.

  EIGHTY-SEVEN

  ALLENDE’S DREAM THAT criollos would flock to the revolution—an unrealistic goal from the outset—was shattered by the rioting at San Miguel and Celaya. Having been a Spaniard for most of my life—and a poor peon only recently—I understood the criollos and gachupines better than Allende, who was swayed by his hopes and dreams.

  The criollos had had centuries to rip the spurs off the gachupines’ bo
ots and had not done so because it meant risking their own privileges and prerogatives. People with nothing to lose rose up, revolted, and died for a cause. Only a few idealists—the rare Hidalgo, Allende, and Raquel—would risk everything when winning meant nothing in their own pockets.

  “The criollos will wait and see who wins,” I told Raquel. “They won’t fight for what most of them already have. They don’t trust the peons and wouldn’t abide a government in which the lower classes participated, much less dominated.”

  The truth hurt, but she agreed with me, saying that a few friends of hers in Méjico City—people like Andrés Quintana Roo and Leona Vicario—might risk their lives and fortunes for a free and equal society; the majority, however, would not.

  “You’re right, most will take a wait-and-see attitude. The criollos will make small gains if they force out the gachupines, but they could lose everything if the peons command the government.”

  She reported that prominent criollos who were asked to join the insurrection had turned down the request.

  “A militia officer in Valladolid, Agustín de Iturbide, is the latest. Allende didn’t favor the man, but the padre was eager to have him join because, like Allende, he is a well-known and admired young officer. He would have brought his regiment to the revolution.”

  I recognized the name. Iturbide’s name had been linked romantically with Isabella.

  Marina and I headed for Guanajuato to scout out the town’s defenses while Raquel went to Méjico City to do the same. I sent two of the padre’s trusted indio overseers with Raquel to protect her and to messenger her observations back to the padre. I had two more men follow behind me and Marina, so they could report back to the padre from Guanajuato.

  One of the men I chose to follow us was Diego Rayu. He could read and write—an important skill in case we had to relay a written report—and he had been to Guanajuato before. For his companion, I chose an indio who was better with a knife than a pen. While Diego was a firebrand, he fought his battles with his intellect. He might need someone who wasn’t as bright but could cut a throat when necessary.