Just because the primary crew stopped digging did not mean they could just walk out of the mine. Teams had to work three shifts before they were allowed to exit the mine. It was then that those who could, would be allowed to see their families.
Each team member merely handed his spot to his relief on the standby crew and quickly proceeded to a designated rest area. There, they rested for five hours and then went back to their digging posts. There were several of these dank, muggy stifling rooms dug out of the main tunnel every few hundred feet apart. These dimly lit quarters were equipped with only the barest of necessities.
Cotton and reed mats were lined on one side of the room and a wooden table with a number of small benches occupied the other. A small barrel containing fresh drinking water was placed on one end of the table. A flickering oil lamp and basic medical supplies were placed on the other end. A separate chamber contained a large wooden crate that served as a make-shift privy.
Although it was commonly referred to as a rest area, mule snorts and brays and the steady heavy iron wheels moving over the rocky bottom created a never ending clamor. The sound was deafening, produced by the constant “tap-tap-tap” of the hammer on chisel, “dig-dig-dig” of the pick, and “scrape-scrape-scrape” sounds of the crew’s shovels.
The miners called the hellish sounds music from the devil himself. Worst, the dust and stifling atmosphere made it hard to breathe. The air was thick with the ever present dust. Regardless, miners fought for every lungful of contaminated air in between coughs and gasps. Layers of dust particles settled in every nook and cranny of the mine.
On the floor, the wheels of the heavily laden cart grinded small pebbles into finer dust. In large areas of the tunnels, water leaking through the porous walls concocted a stream of heavy paste that covered the floor of the mine. The miners’ bodies were not spared the dreadful slime. Mixed with the men’s own perspiration, their faces and hair took on a layered grayish, ghoulish appearance, making them look like an army of walking zombies.
The mine was truly a hell hole. A safe environment for the miners was the farthest goal of those in charge. Those who had complained of the lack of safety procedures were labeled as troublemakers and quickly laid off. The safety issue was not even openly discussed among the miners. The mine owners saw the issue of safety as an impediment for ore extraction. They operated under the policy that mine cave-ins and other accidents were going to occur. It was a risk of doing business.
As soon as the men reached the mine entrance, Porfirio sensed trouble. The paymaster desk was empty and the paymaster was nowhere in sight. The door to the mine office was shut. As the work leader, Porfirio took the first spot in line anyway. He and his pals waited for nearly an hour.
Suddenly the door to the mine office opened and the paymaster came out. The usual escort of two fully-armed guards was with him. However, their frowning faces told Porfirio that something was wrong.
The nervous looking mine official sat on a portable stool that one of the guards placed behind the small weather worn wooden table. The official opened a small black valise and sorted a number of coins on top of the small table. Reading from a copy of the work roster he asked Porfirio to sign his name. Porfirio did as he asked but stopped as the man placed only a few coins in front of him.
“Where is the rest of my pay? It is not smart to play jokes with a man’s pay.”
“Porfirio”, the man asked, “How long have you worked for Don Raul?”
“Many years”, Porfirio replied with a slowly angering look in his face, “Don’t answer my question with that ridiculous question. I ask you again, where is the rest of my pay?”
The pay clerk persisted. “I mean, don’t you trust his decision? It is just that the mule train carrying the payroll has been delayed. It is unable to come up the mountain. Don Raul in all his mercy is giving you half-wages. He will give you the rest as soon as the pay wagon comes in from the train station. As I said, all Don Raul asks is that you trust him.”
Expecting trouble, the two guards reached for their side-arms and advanced toward Porfirio.
“You better take what is being offered, Indio, or you get nothing. You decide”, one of them said.
Porfirio felt the hands of the man behind him gently grab him by the shoulders and pulling him away from the table. This was no time for confrontation. Porfirio knew that. Each of the miners was in the same position. They were the only ones who kept their families away from starvation. If they were laid off or manhandled by the goons with guns to the point of a serious injury, they would not be able to earn money to send home. It wasn’t worth it.
Signing his name, Porfirio took the short stack of coins and left. He had walked a few yards when he felt someone tugging at his elbow from behind. Expecting to defend himself against a thug trying to relieve him of his pay, he turned swiftly and pinned the person against the wall. He was ready to pummel him with his fists when he roared in laughter.
“I’m sorry, padre. I thought you were someone else”. Rather than put the coins in his pocket, Porfirio handed them over to the friar.
“I guess you heard. We are only getting half-wages. Tell my mother that I will send the rest whenever and if I ever get it, but no sooner than next month. You know how mine owners divide their money. First, they pay themselves, then, there’s the quinto for the crown, and the additional quinto for Don Raul”, he said with a wry grin.
“What is left, the goons take for themselves and then pay us the meager amount from the crumbs. There is no justice here.”
Porfirio continued. “The problem with the mines is the mines themselves. Not only is there no justice, it is a living hell for the workers. The constant mixing of sweat, dirt, gun powder, and grease creates its own kind of choking stench. It must be what the real hell smells like. In truth, our burning eyes have witnessed hell for sure. It is a dangerous place. There is peril in every turn of the tunnel. If a cave-in doesn’t get you, the bloody cough will. Blood flows even at the hands of a fellow worker”. Here, Porfirio described for the padre how a miner had been impaled on a long iron rod he ran into while working. The priest listened with stone silence.
“Yes, sir, the louder a miner’s heaving, the closer he gets to the grim reaper. There is no mercy in hell, padre. Absolutely, no justice.”
“Son, my fellow brothers and I pray all day asking God to protect you workers and your families. I can’t explain it, but the lord puts problems in our lap to see how we solve them. Something tells me that you will continue handling any test God puts you through. One day, you will leave the mines. You’ll see.
They stopped by a bench and both sat down. “I don’t mean to make matters worse for you, but you didn’t hear the whole story”, the padre said.
“You’ll hear about it soon enough anyway. So, I’ll tell you. The mule train was delayed, alright, only because it was stopped on its way from Monterrey and robbed.”
“Was anyone hurt?” Porfirio wanted to know, “I know some of those men in the convoy.”
“Yes, two of the guards were killed and a driver was badly injured. I believe that the driver’s name is Don Blas Maria. He is alive, but his wounds are serious”, responded the friar.
Porfirio continued, “If it hadn’t been for Don Blas, I wouldn’t even be here.”
Indeed, Porfirio was grieving for “Tio Blas”, a man whom he looked up to as a father figure.
The story went that Don Blas, as the lead driver of the mine wagon train, had come upon a child on the trail many years before. The child looked disoriented, cold, and hungry. Porfirio, as a nine-year-old, had decided to set out to find his father at the mines. At the time, he had no idea what a mine was; all Porfirio knew was that his father worked at a place called the mines. He could no longer bear seeing his mother Sofia crying each night because she hadn’t heard from her husband for over two months. Night after night, his mother prayed for his fath
er’s return.
So, Porfirio made up his mind to see that his mother’s prayers were answered. Without telling anyone, he left his home late one evening in search of his father. He could not afford to take any food or extra clothing with him, since the family was penniless and there was barely enough for his mother and younger siblings to eat.
Porfirio gained his strength quickly in the two days he joined the mule team. Don Blas had even allowed Porfirio to take the reins a few times. Being in charge of the power of the mule team gave the young lad a feeling of excitement. He was a quick learner and made himself useful by helping the men to load and unload the wagons during the regular rest stops. He also helped to look after the mules’ welfare. Porfirio would have become a trail driver instead of a miner, had it not been for the unique situation in which he found his father.
Arriving at the mine village, Don Blas asked if anyone knew Porfirio’s father. After several inquiries, they found him in a very bad state in one of the poorly-staffed rest homes owned by the mine owners. He was recuperating after suffering an accident in the mine and hadn’t been able to work for over a month and a half.
After seeing his young son, the old miner asked for his old job back. His plan was to work a shift or two and send the money back home with Porfirio. However, tragedy struck! He was caught in an aftershock of a powerful mine blast, and had died instantly under a ton of rock. Sofia was summoned and she escorted her husband’s body to be buried in their village. Desperate, and with a young family, she begged the mine majordomo to hire Porfirio. Big for his age, Porfirio had thus taken his father’s place in the mine.
The mining industry had begun in central Mexico shortly after gold, silver, and rich deposits of valuable ores were discovered by Spanish explorers in the early 1500s. Taking over undeveloped digging holes tended by the local natives, the industry was now a major source of revenue for the crown.
Contributing its share of new revenue to the king, mine owners from central Mexico to present-day Santa Fe, New Mexico had established a new aristocracy in New Spain. It was said that mine owners had as much power as nobles in Spain. Rich mine owners measured their power both by political influence and financial resources. Captain Raul Vásquez was a descendant of such a select group of powerful men in America. The Vásquez mine, Nombre de Dios, was one of the most productive in Mexico.
“Porfirio”, before I go down the mountain, I want you to come with me. There’s someone I want you to meet.”
Porfirio nodded and trailed behind the priest.
Chapter 8
“In God’s Name (En el nombre de Dios)”
Note: This chapter proposes how some of the first Spanish Mexican families came to be in New Spain (Mexico). This is one such saga, that of Don Raul Vásquez, owner of Nombre de Dios Mine, Porfirio’s employer.
oOo
The Vásquez family traced its American roots to the shores of Yucatán in the sixteenth century. More or less around the year 1515, Seaman Francisco Vásquez, crewman of a Spanish brigantine, was thrown overboard during a violent storm. Staying afloat in the midst of a disorganized mass of seaweed and debris, he was washed ashore in a secluded beach of the Yucatán seashore.
Except for a nasty gash on his lower left leg, he considered himself lucky to be alive. He lost his hat, tunic, and leather boots. Rags were all that remained of the rest of his once handsome looking sailor’s uniform. Still in a shock induced stupor, he noticed a nearby crevice in the rocks above the crashing surf. He fell into the narrow space and passed out for nearly two full days.
Thirst and feverish pain caused by severe sun burn on his exposed body eventually woke him up. Wobbly at first, he took his first steps. He went off in search of drink and food. Venturing a little further into the brush, he stumbled onto a small pond of fresh water. It proved to be a welcomed oasis, teeming with small fish that were fairly easy to catch.
Thus, he began to nurse himself back to health, eating mostly raw fish, berries, and plentiful roots he found exposed by the water’s edge. He soon realized that his newfound food source was great, but he was better off in view of the sea. There, he could attract passing ships sailing by. Thus, most of his day, he sat on watch; staring off into the immense sea, with the noise of sea birds and the surf being his constant companions.
One day, an approaching group of laughing children attracted his attention. Impulsively, he scurried over to his hiding place. His instincts told him that young ones usually had parents nearby. Worse, he feared they may be cannibals. His fear of such beings was well-founded. Growing up in Europe, he had heard Greek stories of wild savage tribes that lived throughout mysterious islands beyond the sea. Some, he was led to believe, fed on human flesh. Others grew on trees; or at least he had read in old manuscripts. He waited to see if his hunch was true.
However, the children appeared to be alone. They frolicked and were having fun in the surf. Francisco couldn’t help but think that children were the same everywhere. He remembered doing the very same thing on the coast of Galicia in northern Spain where he had visited relatives as a young child. Even though he didn’t understand the words, the pleasure of merely hearing non-threatening human voices was a Godsend. Not having seen a human being for days, he relished every bit of the experience.
Hidden from view, he sat on the beach in between two large boulders and continued to observe the playful children. All of a sudden a large wave crashed onto the beach. The gigantic wave soon lost its strong hold on the group. Tumbling on the sand, most of the children gained a foothold and walked back above the dry shoreline. That is, except for one. A small child had been swept offshore and was having trouble swimming against the tide. Her frantic call alarmed them as she was being swept away farther and farther from shore by the sea currents.
Casting his fear to the wind, the young ragged castaway seaman ran toward the distressed children, yelling “En el nombre de Dios” (In God’s name). Upon seeing him, the young children expected that Francisco meant to do them harm. They only screamed louder and huddled together for the worse. He stopped long enough to point to their little sister and immediately dove into the surf. He reached the child in no time.
However, the powerful waters weren’t willing to give up their catch so easily. Francisco fought each incoming huge wave. After a few harrowing moments, he took a firm grasp of the child. He was then able to reach dry land and her waiting siblings.
Francisco’s gut feeling of the children’s parents being nearby was correct. As soon as he put the child down and began reviving her, he saw the tall shadows of adults envelope him and the child on the sand. Although scared to death, he concentrated on saving the child’s life. His heroic efforts paid off. At first, the child coughed the last bit of sea water in her lungs and arose, a little embarrassed at the attention, as if nothing had happened. He heard a collective sigh of relief from the crowd. From that point on, Francisco was a hero.
As it turned out, the child was a tribal elder’s granddaughter. So thankful was the girl’s family that the Spaniard was immediately adopted into their clan. While relieved, he was at the same time hopeful that his shipmates would soon return. He was homesick.
Days passed and Francisco saw no signs of approaching Spanish ships on the ocean. His constant vigil developed into a daily routine. For six months, he stood watch three times a day. Then, it was twice a day. Later, it became a part of his morning ritual. He prayed endlessly.
Finally, almost a whole year since his misfortune, his survival tendencies told him that he would never see Cuba again, nor any of his countrymen. He resigned himself to learn about his new family and his beautiful surroundings.
Thus, with prayers ending with the words “En el nombre de Dios”, Francisco stopped looking at the ocean for his rescuers. His host family was the core of an extended clan numbering over 200 members. Judging from his acceptance into the Yucatan people he was already home. He immersed himself into t
he culture and accepted most of their customs. The only aspect of his new life that he did not accept was the tattooing of his body. Nevertheless, he was fully accepted and he in turn loved his new family.
Aboard ship, Francisco was known as a jack-of-all-trades and quick learner. So, adapting to his new life was not difficult. He had a rudimentary knowledge of mechanics. He expanded the existing canal system in the village. Francisco made himself useful in many ways. He was indeed lucky to be alive. Consequently, he married into the tribe. However, shortly after giving birth, his wife took ill and died. Now, Francisco had to care for his new son by himself.
The years began to pass. About ten years later, a group of young food gathering women ran into the camp to say that a huge, strange monster was approaching from the sea. It took Francisco a few moments, but he translated the words “sea monster” to mean a ship. He accompanied the frightened villagers to the shore and proved his point.
A Spanish ship was anchored in the bay. Marveling at the sight, all Francisco could mumble over and over was the phrase “En el nombre de Dios”. He recalled that he had prayed those words before in his private moments of crisis since his arrival. Prayer does work, he mumbled to himself. From now on these words would become his mantra.
He observed a number of men from the ship boarding a small boat. They began to row toward the beach. The onlookers from the village had seen enough. They ran in terror back toward their camp. Expectedly, Francisco and his son remained to welcome the arrivals. The first to step out of the vessel was the first mate of Francisco’s former ship. He was surprised to find out that Francisco still alive.
Friendly Betrayal Page 7