“Papá, please tell me, at what moment did you return to the Catholic faith?”
He opened his hands, suddenly surprised, and then stroked his beard. “You ask if I returned—but was there ever a time when I was part of it? For Catholics, it’s enough to receive baptism. That’s why they do it by force. That kind of proselytizing is easy. But those who are baptized against their will do not believe in their hearts. It’s as if someone asked you to swear your loyalty to someone but someone else does it for you, then they call you a traitor for not being loyal to the person you never swore to be loyal to—an incongruence that might make one smile, were it not so tragic.”
“Baptism doesn’t bestow grace?”
“Grace comes with faith. My son, I have often wished to have faith in the dogma of the church, so as to no longer be persecuted. You have seen me in services and processions. It isn’t always only to pretend. I concentrate, listen, pray, try to feel. But I only see a ceremony that is not my own.”
“Would you stop being Jewish, Papá?”
“Of course I would! Like so many. Like millions, sick and tired of being the outcasts of the world. But I would also have to stop being who I am. Forget my parents, my past, the iron key.”
“It’s not only religion, then.”
“It is something deeper.”
“What?”
“I’m not able to capture it. History, perhaps. Or a common destiny.”
“Jews are the people of the sacred texts, of the book,” Francisco mused. “History is a book, is the written word—what a paradox, no? Who else other than Jews has cultivated so much history, and, at the same time, been so stubbornly punished for it?”
After a while, Diego murmured, “It is not easy to be Jewish, just as it isn’t easy to walk the path of virtue. Not only that, it is not permitted to be Jewish.”
“And so?”
“So you either convert, in your heart—”
“The heart won’t respond to will,” Francisco broke in, “you just finished saying that.”
“—or you pretend. That is what I do.”
“Representation, appearance. We are the same as them, or worse.” He shook his head in sorrow. “How sad, how unworthy of us, Papá.”
“They force us to be false.”
“We accept being false.”
“Yes.”
“Is there no other possibility?”
“There is not. We are captives in an indestructible prison. There is no alternative.”
The time had come to leave. A gray curtain of clouds swelled over the horizon. The air had grown cool and the waves were advancing on the shore.
“It’s hard for me to resign myself,” Francisco thought. “I sense that another path exists, and that it’s very narrow, very difficult. I sense that I will break the prison walls.”
83
“A new adversary of the Holy Office is rising cautiously,” thinks Inquisitor Andrés Juan Gaitán in his austere room. It is more dangerous because it links its vigor to a devastating political capacity. It was born to defend the true religion from Protestant assault, but it is maneuvering to hold all the power of the church. This is the Society of Jesus.
They bring a subtle ambivalence: aggression and piety. The Jesuits, in the brief period of their existence, have already gained the stature of other religious orders. Not satisfied with such success, they often shamelessly report on the weaknesses and incompetence of Dominicans, Franciscans, Mercedarians, and Augustinians, to indirectly demonstrate their own superiority. Their lack of modesty has allowed them to advance on all fronts. They have dazzled Rome and Madrid. Their next target, which they will approach with twisted strategies, is the Holy Office. I must discuss this point with my colleagues. But even with them, I must be prudent. I can’t let them think that I’m driven by spurious interests.
One example of the twisted method they use to gain ground is their approach to Indians. They insist on pious techniques and claim to convert more swiftly and effectively. They’re rascals. First of all, they lack originality, because since the time of Bartolomé de las Casas, many priests have advocated for the natives. Secondly, their objective isn’t limited to conversion, but, rather, leveraging it to build power. The settlement of Indians that they’re building proves it; they want to form actual republics under their exclusive jurisdiction. With the reasoning that the Indian overseers are cruel and greedy, they’ve excluded the presence of others. They’re Indian overseers in monks’ robes! And very ambitious.
Now they’re closing in on Lima; the viceroy, the archbishop, and the Inquisition are supposed to bow to them. I say this because, on one side, the Jesuit republic grows in Paraguay, with thousands of Guaraní Indians at their service. On the other side, the Jesuit republic of Chile includes thousands of Arauco Indians. Those two blocks will suffocate us. This is as obvious as the sun, impossible to see due to its own intensity. The Jesuits are sanctimonious enough to present the successes of their enterprise as victories for the faith. And they are believed.
It goes without saying that they seek to undermine the authority of the Holy Office. They deny the importance of surveilling New Christians, claim that Jewish practices won’t unsettle the church, and insist on prioritizing indigenous conversions.
But the Holy Office’s job is not to evangelize, but to prevent poisons from entering the faith. They place no importance in that. They are demons.
84
Who didn’t know that the cynical war between various jurisdictions of the Viceroyalty—civil power, ecclesiastic power, the Holy Office, religious orders—also included battles within the jurisdictions themselves? The rule—a healthy but impotent one—was to unite all these varying tendencies under the authority of the king, and faith in Christ. But the archbishop stuck his nose into everything, and Lima’s councilmen, whose charge was strictly municipal, tried to sniff around the privacy of monasteries, Inquisition prisons, and the business of the viceroy. The Royal Court, tasked with justice, saw itself as interfered with, bought off, and mocked, and, as a result, was spurred to return those attentions with interferences, bribes, and mockery of its own. Even the University of San Marcos, the pride of the Viceroyalty, was a prisoner of conflicts and a provoker of the same.
This constant battle was suddenly interrupted. The author of the unexpected miracle was not a local figure, but, rather, a Dutch Protestant, Joris van Spilbergen. He was about to invade Peru and set off an apocalypse.
Francisco could not believe the legend being spread about his intelligence and cruelty. He was described as a herald of the devil.
His father received instructions to evacuate the chronically ill from the hospital, to make room for those who would soon be wounded in battle. Francisco, Joaquín del Pilar, and other students, graduates, and doctors of Lima were summoned to Callao to support the cause. Joris van Spilbergen was a pirate ready to turn the City of Kings into ash.
A sudden solidarity swept through Lima like a new wind. Spaniards, Creoles, Indians, mestizos, mulattoes, black people, laypeople, noblemen, artisans, farmers, merchants, and clergymen put aside their quarrels to unite against the common enemy.
Holland, after having battled for more than forty years to gain its independence, had not ended its conflict with Spain. The terms of their treaty were only honored in Europe, not on the high seas, where the Dutch attempted to gain territories and fortunes. The war continued in the nearby islands called the Moluccas, and now seemed to be spreading.
In effect, the Dutch had decided to exploit the route to Asia through the Strait of Magellan. So they formed a squadron with plentiful troops and placed Joris van Spilbergen at the helm. Their ships crossed the Atlantic without troubles, arrived at the Brazilian coast, and then went south; they had to cross the strait before the winter winds arrived. The adventure was extremely dangerous, and one of the ships deserted. The admiral said, “We have orders to cross the Strait of Magellan and I have no other path. Our ships may not separate.” The squadron entered t
he labyrinth of ice. The canals were white tombs, whistling with wind that presaged death. Waves broke against the ivory walls and avalanches of foam obscured the zigzagging path. The ships could break against the blocks of ice or run aground against the rocks. The route was deceiving; one day they thought they were back at the entrance of the strait. Finally, the five abused ships reunited in the bay on the other side, after escaping rough waters and currents that could have sunk them.
Meanwhile, Spanish spies in Holland had learned of this intrusive mission and reported it to Madrid. The marquis of Montesclaros placed his nephew Rodrigo de Mendoza at the helm of the Viceroyal fleet. He was a young, brave man, though inexperienced. The viceroy’s nepotism did not cede even in the face of such a significant threat.
The Dutch headed north, keeping the Chilean coast in sight. They arrived in Valparaíso and panic ensued. Spilbergen disembarked with two hundred men and a piece of artillery. The Spanish set fire to their own homes as the Dutch torched them from another direction. There was more damage and screaming than killing. In the mist of twilight, after provisioning themselves to their satisfaction, the invaders embarked to charge against the fortifications of Callao as soon as possible in order to reach Lima and the coveted gold shipped to Spanish ports.
The viceroy’s nephew decided to confront the Protestant pirates on the high seas. He would surprise them; he had reasons not to trust the army, whose soldiers were better prepared for a carnival parade than for an actual battle.
As the confrontation was imminent, the night in Callao was sleepless and tense. More than two thousand men were assigned to posts armed with guns, swords, and knives to fend off the intruders.
Francisco was given a spear and a leather shield. He grasped one in each hand, feeling ridiculous. Like him, the majority of his neighbors had no real knowledge of how to wield such weapons. The officials in charge of artillery were even worse, as they had just learned of the deterioration of their cannons. Despair stirred so much rage that some men took it out on the cannons, kicking them to pieces.
Servants placed torches in even the most remote posts, to make the pirates think there were more people than there actually were. The clergymen, in their extreme nervousness, moved through the groups giving blessings; they had slandered the Protestants so much that the least they now expected was to be eaten alive as soon as the enemy took hold of the port. The soldiers were to spread out along the coast and monitor neighbors to prevent desertions. One high-ranking officer on horseback issued curt orders; it was Lorenzo Valdés.
The cold soaked into people’s bones. Soup cooked in pots over scattered fires. The inexperienced defenders approached the warmth, discussing the news. The viceroy’s nephew was an irresponsible lad to some, and an implacable force to others.
“The Dutch will devour him,” one man proclaimed, as he noisily sipped broth from a mug.
“That’s not true. He’ll capture the Dutchman and shove his balls into his mouth!” another man answered.
“I agree,” a third man said, extending his mug toward an enslaved man ladling out broth. “The pirates won’t dare set foot on this land. Look at all these burning torches. They know that we’re thousands of soldiers.”
The skeptical neighbor laughed loudly. “Thousands of soldiers? A few, no more. We’re thousands of neighbors without any training. That’s what we are.”
“Might you be Portuguese?” the young man said angrily.
“No. Why would you accuse me of that? Is there something wrong with my pronunciation of Spanish?”
Francisco felt uncomfortable. His father, the Portuguese doctor, was right at this moment a selfless guard who would attend to these sons of bitches if they needed it.
“The Portuguese are happy to see these provocations from Holland.”
“I’m not happy about this, young man!” he reproached emphatically. “And I’m not Portuguese. Also, I beg you not to be stupid or confuse things.”
“I won’t permit you to—”
“You’re too young to give me permission. I’m telling you not to confuse matters.” He pointed at him with his mug, eyes flashing. “The Portuguese are one thing, and Portuguese Jews are another.” He emphasized the word “Jews.”
The chorus went silent before the man’s authority. Only distant voices and the neighs of horses could be heard.
“Portuguese Jews are the ones who would be happy,” he said after a while. “Protestants are their allies in hating our faith.”
Francisco couldn’t keep drinking his ration. He wanted to hurl it in the man’s face.
“All Portuguese people are Jews,” someone said.
“Not all.”
“I don’t know a single one who isn’t.”
Francisco turned toward the sound of approaching hoofs. It was Lorenzo. He waved at him.
“None of this loitering! Let’s go!” the handsome rider scolded. “Each man to his place!”
The men had their mugs refilled and scattered along the walls.
“How are you?” Lorenzo said, happy to see his old friend’s spear and shield in the dim firelight.
“Bad.” Francisco forced a smile.
“Are you afraid, then?”
“I’d do better in the hospital, preparing instruments. I don’t know what to do with these weapons.”
“It’s true that they don’t look natural on you,” Lorenzo said, laughing.
“But orders are orders.”
“That’s right,” he said, stroking his horse’s neck. “A doctor should wield weapons, too. Didn’t your father take part in security back in Ibatín?”
“That’s true.”
“You’re security in Callao.” He adjusted his helmet. “Speaking of which, how is he?”
Francisco hung his head. Lorenzo regretted the question.
“Forgive me.”
“Nothing to forgive. He’s sick and depressed. He’s at the hospital. That’s his post. He’s going to attend to the wounded.”
“If there are any.”
“You don’t think there will be?”
“Look at this row of torches. Do you think a few pirates are going to disembark to be slaughtered by thousands of soldiers?”
“They aren’t all soldiers.”
“The Dutch don’t know that.” He pulled on his reins. “Goodbye, Francisco!”
“Goodbye.”
Francisco walked toward the rampart and sat down. He put down his weapons, loosened his belt, and curled up under his hat and cloak.
He needed to get some sleep. A new accusation fluttered inside him: “Portuguese.” Until this night, he’d had to prove a lack of wretched Jewish blood; now he also had to avoid being suspected of Portuguese nationality. A story without end.
The wait stretched on.
The following afternoon, the feared sails appeared on the horizon, resembling fangs. They were harnessing a good wind and were approaching Callao. Spilbergen, with the devil’s help, knew the port’s defenders were tired and inexperienced. And he believed that his four hundred privateers would be enough to break the barriers, defeat the few good soldiers, and take unprecedented spoils.
Rodrigo de Mendoza leapt to his ship and ordered an attack at sea. He rushed toward the intruders. Meanwhile, on land, terror prevailed. Officers galloped between posts, pushing the reluctant to their stations. The artillerymen sweat in fruitless attempts to repair the cannons. Slaves were forced to the beach so that their chests might be the first in the line of fire. Francisco stood beside other defenders armed with shields and knives.
The first bombardment erupted near Cerro Azul. The responding barrage unleashed enormous clouds of smoke. Between spheres of ash, fire flashed and cannonballs flew. Many men fell to the sea. From land, it was impossible to help, or even differentiate between flags amid the sooty foam. Nevertheless, as the afternoon deepened into twilight, the battle was clearly closing in on the port. The explosions were becoming louder, and the smell of gunpowder sharpened.
Mendoza, dirtied by soot and blood, thought he understood Spilbergen’s ploy: to leverage oncoming darkness to reach the shore. He ordered his troops to pursue him relentlessly. They fired several cannonballs, but the growing dark kept him from seeing his own tragic error. He was not attacking a Dutch ship, but one of his own, which was sinking in the midst of a horrific uproar.
The more experienced Spilbergen devoted himself to gathering his men and pointing his prow toward a refuge he’d already set up in a rocky area of San Lorenzo Island, where he could heal the wounded and repair his squadron.
The Dutch ships disturbed the peace again three days later. Their fast advance caused a harried commotion. Several clergymen held up images of saints, carrying them on platforms to the shore so they might better intervene on behalf of mortals. The last weapons were distributed; this time Francisco was given a gun.
“I had a spear and leather shield,” he said.
“Take this and don’t complain, damn it!” The angry officer pushed him toward the rampart as he handed another gun to the next citizen.
The soldiers used their swords to strike black people and Indians who resisted lining up on the shore to offer their lives. The admiral of the fleet had not even reached the dock when a cannon thundered and a projectile flew over the gathered people, destroying a few outlying huts. Panic broke out. It was too late to keep them out at sea. Prayers, blessings, and confessions rose with more strength than the clouds of gunpowder.
Spilbergen, however, had not planned to fight a war on land; he was outnumbered. So he bid them farewell with a burst of laughter, like a good offspring of Satan.
Equal parts defeat and victory, the viceroy drew lessons from these events; he went about perfecting his absurd fleet and fixing the artillery; war should not only be fought against internal competitors, but also against enemies in Spain who now revealed their true ambitions.
Gaitán went even further. He opined that the Dutch incursion not only came from his own greed or hatred of the church, but also from the role of Portuguese Jews, or Marranos. Hadn’t the Dutch attacked in Brazil and, after a few successes, allowed the Jews to reopen their synagogues? It was, obviously, a conspiracy. Therefore, it was not enough to repel sporadic attacks or—as the inefficient viceroy was doing—improve fleets and artillery, it was urgent to uncover, persecute, and exterminate the internal enemy.
Against the Inquisition Page 32