Taino

by Jose Barreiro

  But we were ready with our voyage to Cuba, and I had not the need to look. In my mind every day and night, I hugged my mother and lay in my hammock, hearing her songs. Many came to beg the Guamíquina, as they called the admiral, relatives of the doomed who pleaded. “Please, don’t kill our fathers, please don’t kill my cacique.”

  They spoke in my ear, too, and the night before the execution, as the admiral readied for bed, I brought him fruit.

  “The people here would cooperate more if their women were not violated and the cruelties would stop.”

  “The men are sentenced, Dieguillo.”

  “Consider the sentence, my admiral. Noses have been slit for the mere dumping of a pompous ass.” I knew the admiral enough to intuit he did not like the dumped hidalgos and got the slightest smile out of him, though he answered: “I cannot underestimate the element of respect. An Indian must not challenge the dignity of an hidalgo.”

  “Even so, my señor, consider the balance. A well-deserved bath against two with slit noses and ears. Their warriors, even now, they want to make peace. They want no war with you. They fear, they even love you.”

  Finally, he released the two men, after all their subcaciques and ni-Taínos pledged perpetual tribute to his jurisdiction.

  Those days, we were ready to sail but going nowhere as the winds proved contrary. The admiral ordained a round of Masses. These were about finished and the prevailing winds shifting in our favor, when a “thief” was caught with great excitement. A young Taíno man had stolen a cutlass. He was brought in tied by the hands. The admiral, impatient to go, was petitioned to grant the maximum sentence against the thief, that is, the chopping off of his hand.

  I remember the young boy. He was about my same age. They tied him to a post at the docks. “Why do they do this?” he asked me as I brought on board the last of the fresh cassabe torts. “I took the blade only to cut a few vines. Before, they took my pendant, and this man whose big knife I took even gave me a name. Why can’t they just let me go?”

  I wondered what response to give him when I heard the admiral. “Dieguillo, get away!” he shouted. “Leave the thief alone.”

  The admiral of the Ocean Sea was busy with instructions for everyone. There were ships to be dispatched for Spain; final instructions to his war captains (“Reduce all resistance to the king’s dominion”); instructions on what to build and what crops to put in. The boy sat in the sun and cried, knowing what his punishment would be. “We are not a thieving people,” he said a few times. “Like all my people, a simple reed I will respect.”

  The ax came down as we pulled away, the admiral witnessing from the poop deck. I meant to miss the moment, working below deck and burying my gaze for minutes at a time. It was fate itself forced me to look out a small hole, precisely to see the arcing blade and hear it hit, the boy crying like a caught seagull as tears popped into my eyes to join his running blood.

  One hundred twenty-six. Discussions in the evening.

  “What makes them that mean?” It was Enriquillo speaking. “So many things like that they have done to our people.”

  This meeting was on an evening, at the cacique’s bohío. For three straight nights I have told stories, many more even than I can write. Most of the captains, including Tamayo, and many guaxeri come to listen. Cao, my first guide of the trip, was there and, I noticed, seated behind Tamayo. I spoke of the chopped hand because of Tamayo, to help put him at ease with my words over his recent deed. I want to be closer to this warrior captain. It is important that Tamayo accept Enriquillo’s orders to stop raiding. Ill-timed violence could destroy all chance at negotiation. I looked to Tamayo and nodded the palaver over to him, which he recognized.

  “I believe the gold makes them crazy,” Tamayo spoke after a few minutes. “That is truly their god. Gold is more important to them than their own people.”

  “That is what Hatuey said when he fled over to the Cubans,” Romero said. “‘The Castilians worship only one God, and his name is Gold,’ he told them.”

  “I heard that story as a child,” Enriquillo added in. “How Hatuey was burned at the stake.”

  “Yes,” Tamayo continued. “That story was also in my ears. Everybody told that story some years ago, even the priests. It impressed me very much how he knew that about the gold. I was told he even put together a new ceremony, which he introduced at villages in Cuba. He would lead them to the top of the mountains overlooking the sea, carrying their baskets with all their things made of gold. The behikes would sing death and farewell songs, offering their spirits back to the waters, a way of refuge. Hatuey would sing an areito, asking the winds to hold the Castilians back, and they would throw all the gold into the deep waters.”

  “Hatuey was caught by mastiff dogs,” Enriquillo said. “They say he killed two hands of Spaniards.”

  “I was there when he was burned,” I told them. “At the place called Yara, near Bayamo, Cuba. But we are getting ahead of my story. Hatuey’s death was in 1512 or so. I was telling you about things that happened at the very beginning, the war against Caonabó, in the year of 1494.”

  “And Guarionex,” Enriquillo added. “They were the old caciques then. Big men. Because Hatuey was a lesser cacique here on this island. He was respected, but he was not as important as Caonabó, Bohekio, or Guarionex. And, it is true, his story comes later, when he fled from here a year after Anacaona’s massacre,” Enriquillo said.

  “Yes, maybe about five years after the massacre, around 1507 to ’08, maybe later,” I said, noticing Doña Mencia, who looked away at the mention of Anacaona, her own mother’s mother, and the memory of her sad demise. “But what I was referring to, in the very early wars, happens against Caonabó and Guarionex.”

  Enriquillo stood. There were upward of sixty or more people surrounding the elders’ circle, where my stories were being heard. He looked over the group. “Tonight many have come, our people,” he said. “It is a risk of assemblage I do not often allow. We are nevertheless well guarded by warriors at all corners.

  “My elder, Guaikán, sitting here with us, gifts us with his memory. He makes me very proud to be Taíno tonight. You, our younger ears, hear his tale, as he would tell it to you. He knows your four generations. He speaks of the generation before our own, the generation of Caonabó and Guarionex, Guacanagarí and Bohekio, and Anacaona, those first ones to meet the Castilians. And before it is over we will hear of Caiçiju, who was of a generation before that. Guaikán knows that story, too. His own generation comes next, and then ours, of Mencia and myself, and Tamayo. Then comes you. So, these stories are your stories. You will do well to remember them and listen to what your elder says.”

  Finally, in truly regal manner, Enriquillo turned to me. “Ni-Taíno Guaikán, our questions have taken you away from your story path. But since it is late and some must travel before they sleep, perhaps you could finish with the story of Caonabó, how he was betrayed and caught by gold and of his final moment. Of course, the next time, we would like to continue with the story of Guarionex and even hear about Hatuey.”

  So, I finished that evening’s round of stories with the capture of Caonabó, a memory I dedicated to my young guide, Cao, who had been true and ensured my safety into camp.

  One hundred twenty-seven. Caonabó’s deception by Hojeda.

  Caonabó was a warrior’s warrior. His own father was a Carib war leader and his father’s own grandfather was the first in his line to settle on this Bohío island. I was gone on our trip to Cuba when his capture happened, but I heard the story from him.

  Caonabó was caught by gold, treacherously. Hojeda chased him several times after raids near to Isabela but had not dared battle the old cacique into his own territory.

  Hojeda was on his own and he was clever. He did the one thing Caonabó did not expect: he lied to him. Hojeda sent Caonabó a message that the admiral wanted peace with him, and would the cacique come to visit? He wanted to give him the bell at the church of Isabela, he told him, the bell tha
t rang so loudly and that, he said, was heard directly by the Great Spirit. Caonabó would not come but, wondering on the bell and its meanings, instead invited Hojeda to visit him. The intrepid Hojeda took nine men on horseback to see the cacique, knowing he would be received in peace. Caonabó said he was suddenly encouraged by the Castilian’s friendly approach.

  Over the next few days, the cacique took a genuine liking to Hojeda, who was quite the diplomat and full of acrobatic and juggling tricks and whose men were on their best behavior and pretended to respect Caonabó’s court. They talked about customs and visions, and, mostly, they talked about gold. They both respected the gold, though for very different reasons. Hojeda had brought a set of handcuffs made of a shiny bronze, the metal we call guanin. These shiny handcuffs were not caona but a fine metal that is also cherished by our people. “They are very special,” Hojeda told the cacique, “meant only for a great king.” A few times, Hojeda let Caonabó handle the intriguing contraption, even locking one handcuff onto the cacique’s wrist and using the other side to hold around the forearm, but always releasing the cacique before suspicion could arise. Caonabó wondered as to the shape of the cuffs, but did not connect their purpose. He was reassured by Hojeda’s references to their sacred nature and assumed that no one would invoke the spirits deceitfully. For another thing, Hojeda, at that time, was still quite a correct man and forbade his men from abusing the women. This was very encouraging to the cacique, that such a value could be established with the Castilians.

  One day, the Castilian captain solemnly proffered to gift the cacique with the golden handcuffs. A dream he had the night before, Hojeda said, that prescribed a ritual bath in the Taíno custom. The cacique, at ease deep in his own territory, agreed. Hojeda led the cacique to a stream where the ni-Taíno liked to bathe. Both men entered the water and conversed through an interpreter. Hojeda by then had learned some of our Taíno protocol. He spoke of cleanliness of body and spirit, the sacredness of the digo, our own Taíno sudsy herb. Then he spoke of a horse ceremony that would properly honor Caonabó, who agreed to let Hojeda honor him after the bath, when the Castilian captain seated the cacique behind him on his horse then ceremoniously placed the handcuffs on him. The cacique, happy and very confident about his Castilian friend, complied with all the requests. Suddenly, the golden handcuffs secured his second wrist, the Castilians were all mounted around him, two lances held to his neck, and quickly they rode away with Caonabó a prisoner in his own land, in chains and on his way to Isabela.

  One hundred twenty-eight. Nobody liked the story.

  Neither young nor old liked this story, how it ended for Caonabó. It was too easy. He was too fierce to fall so easily. Even some complained about the evil of pretending friendship in the cacique’s home bohío, only to betray him.

  “Learn,” Enriquillo told the group, after I sat down. “In such a maneuver fell our fiercest cacique, Caonabó, the guardian of our ancestors’ gold. Think how easily we can fall ourselves if we trust the white man.”

  One hundred twenty-nine. San Miguel’s deception.

  Tamayo felt compelled to speak up. “We are clever now in ways our fathers were not,” he said. “Like the time with San Miguel, when his troops went for the gold.”

  San Miguel was the captain who pressed Enriquillo into moving his camps deeper in the Bahuruku. San Miguel’s Indian trackers uncovered Enriquillo’s main camps one time, in 1527. The Castilians attacked constantly and overran Enriquillo’s estancias. “Do you know of that episode?” Tamayo asked me.

  A little, I indicated by showing half a finger. I was unclear about the sequence of events, except that substantial bullion of gold, worth more than twenty thousand pesos, was recovered by the Castilans at the time.

  “San Miguel was hurting us,” Tamayo told me. “We were hard-pressed to fight off so many well-directed attacks. They were hurting us to the gut. At one moment I remember our fighters were scattered wide, and we did not know who was lost and who survived. So, they had us by the throat—the only time ever. It was then, when I believed all was lost, our cacique thought to request a parley and began negotiations. You should have seen it, elder. He met San Miguel on the twin peaks, which are only twenty feet across from each other but separated by a deep abyss.” Tamayo turned to Enriquillo. “But please tell us yourself,” he said.

  Enriquillo smiled thinly. Tamayo and everyone’s mood suddenly lightened, even at this slightest signal from the revered cacique.

  “We fooled San Miguel,” Enriquillo said. “As we talked, for two and then four weeks, our camps moved farther up the mountains. Still, San Miguel massed his troops to bear down on our trails, and he had good guides. He negotiated harshly and mandated a date for my capitulation. So, we hurried to move our camps, and we searched for a way to break his strength.”

  I could hear loud whispers in the group. “The gold,” a captain said.

  “Yes, the gold,” Enriquillo repeated loudly. “We had gold from a raid years before, bullion taken in 1519 from a Castilian convoy traveling by trail to Santo Domingo. It was gold from the mainland, not from here. I always kept that gold, never spent any of it. In truth, I did not want it and even punished the captain who led that raid. Yet, the gold saved us, for on the morning of August 4, 1528, when San Miguel came to take me in, his guides found instead five piles of gold, neatly stacked.

  “We were already in retreat, moving fast to cover our trails and disappear. The gold gave them pause. Three captains San Miguel ordered to follow us, but they found ways to discuss the orders and never chased us. They quarreled about how to distribute the bullion, to which, I heard, San Miguel immediately proclaimed his own captaincy’s 10 percent. That claim, plus the king’s 20 percent and other formal claims, kept the troops near the gold. Not one squad chased after us. They watched each other closely as they transported the bullion down the mountain. For two years, I later heard, San Miguel’s captains sued each other over their claims to shares in the gold.”

  There was a lot of nodding, and the cacique was silent.

  “Our cacique fooled them,” Tamayo spoke. “And later we punished them, even San Miguel. We burned his ranch house, we killed all his bulls; we beheaded every one of his stallion studs, every one of his boars and his rams. And we hanged or strangled every mánso guide that ever trailed us. Every one.”

  One hundred thirty. Seeking a path to peace, Enriquillo.

  Enriquillo knows he can’t win in the long run. Yesterday morning we walked his perimeter, and he was very measured and determined. He started twice to talk but ran out of words. “It happens like that,” he said. “My thoughts of the future stop coming. My ears and eyes I have fortified over the years. I do not think so much but feel for danger. I am the hawk in the tree, watching. I am the cagüayo lizard, scouting the outer trees, spotting for the flocks of shiny blackbirds that would eat the egg of my young…”

  He had started by saying that he thought it best to settle for a peace now, that it was better not to push the Castilians if the king actually sought peace. “I consider that I would bring my men in,” he said. “I tell my warriors that the reason we are here is not to make war but to ensure the survival of our people. My warriors, you see, are trained for war. I demand a vigilance from them that is complete. We have put up a world here, in these mountains. Our hunters and guards are instructed, as in our Taíno times, to take seed pouches into the woods, to propagate the guayaba, the anón, the caimitu, and the mamey; thus we have orchards in the forest whose location only we know. Preparation for survival from battle, the assurance that we will be attacked in our villages, has been our constant idea, so we have plantations deep in the forest.”

  We walked in silence for a very long time, his two pages trailing behind us. Again later, as we circled back, he tried to talk. He complained that he still must teach constant vigilance to his people. “Our Taíno are still too trusting of the white man. Our men sometimes will walk the savanna and run into woodcutters, or cattle boys, white, Indian,
and Negro, gift them with foods, and establish talk. This happened so often I have been forced to threaten with execution any such act,” he said. “Survival this way, I know. Making war I know. But I see not how we go if peace is possible. I just don’t know…”

  No more words came to him, and he walked rapidly a long time. Suddenly, Enriquillo froze. A pig could be heard in the forest. I watched him stalk the pig with only a short, thick stick in his hand. As the pig fed, so Enrique moved in. As the pig froze to listen, he, too, froze. Truly he is very keen, his face and eyes have the quality of a hawk, though his movements were those of the mahá snake, his body blending in smooth motion, positioning to fix on the feeding pig. Suddenly Enriquillo darted and threw the stick, the pig yelping loudly as he circled butt first around a broken front leg. The pages made the kill, gutted him quickly, wrapping the tripe around a stick. Tucking the carcass into a macoutí backpack, they carried him to camp.

  One hundred thirty-one. Looking for the behike.

  Seeking talk of the future, then, we circled back to Enrique’s bohío, where we found Doña Mencia directing four helpers, two of them full African men, in the structuring of a new cookhouse. “We should convene our behike, Baiguanex, and see what we can do,” Enrique told her, after they had kissed. The men also greeted us cordially, and Enriquillo gave them his kill for their evening meal.

  Doña Mencia accompanied us around the camp. She and Enrique held hands, and then she also held my hand as we walked. I was curious about the behike Baiguanex, whom I had not met. Nearing the hut of Baiguanex, some distance from the main camp, Enrique cooed like the mourning dove and without stopping for an answer walked up a slope to the bohío.

  “Enter my home, which is your home, cacique,” a voice said from inside the circular, thatch-roofed bohío.

  We entered to the left and sat down in a circle as he instructed. The behike was younger than me, but I felt seriousness in the way of his deep composure. From the rafters of his bohío, he had various herbs drying, and he had a small white pipe that he loaded with tobacco and lit, passing it to Enrique, Doña Mencia, and myself. He took his pipe back when we had smoked, reloaded it, and smoked long and hard by himself, filling the hut with spiraling fumes.