River of Darkness

by Buddy Levy

  Viceroy Vela, however, was equally headstrong, and no sooner had he arrived than he burst into bold, if rash, action. He immediately imprisoned Governor Vaca, whom he felt was not doing enough to quell resistance, placing him on a ship to await a formal residencia. With the de facto ruler of Peru temporarily out of the way, he then issued a formal proclamation that Gonzalo Pizarro was to surrender and disband his army. Gonzalo simply scoffed at this demand, despite its implications, and he was from that moment branded a rebel. Vela announced, “Anyone who spoke favorably of Gonzalo Pizarro or against the New Laws … would be given a hundred lashes at the pillory in the Plaza de Armas.” This was a punishment nearly worse than death, for the man who managed to survive one hundred lashes was a disfigured, scarred, and humiliated man indeed, publicly bearing the marks of his rebellion to the end of his life.

  Vela added in a last proclamation that all of the properties previously awarded by Francisco Pizarro would be confiscated, their slaves freed, and that any who opposed these actions would be hanged as traitors, up to seventy at a time if necessary. It was, in effect, a declaration of war against Gonzalo Pizarro.

  Impudent, brash, but acutely aware of politics, power, and Spain’s legal protocols, the defiant Gonzalo now wrote to his king, an appeal that spoke for all the encomenderos and Spanish citizens in cities like Quito, La Plata, and Cuzco. It was something of a last-ditch effort, at once a request that the unreasonable New Laws be either rescinded or amended and a reminder of his previous services to the crown, underlying his belief in the inherent truth, justice, and righteousness of his own cause. Written from Cuzco and from his military camps, the letters were sent to Spain, though the impetuous, ambitious last Pizarro knew full well that blood would be spilled long before the missives reached their destination in the mother country.

  That political business taken care of, Pizarro then saddled up and rode, leaving Cuzco in a bold and calculated march on Lima. It was he and he alone who should govern Peru. Viceroy Vela, now clinging tenuously to his own support and power, saw the youngest Pizarro gaining strength, and he dispatched an emissary to try to reason with Gonzalo, if not quell the march. But Gonzalo’s mind was now bent on supremacy: “See here,” he railed, “I am to be Governor because we would trust no one else … I don’t care a jot for … my nephews or nieces or the eight thousand pesos I have in Spain … I must die governing! I give this as my reply and there is nothing more to be said about it.”

  Pizarro cut a violent swath across the land, leaving no room for equivocation: you were either with him or against him. In his black-and-white worldview, there was no such thing as neutral, so that any Spaniards in Peru who chose not to support him he considered enemies, and he dealt as harshly with them as he had dealt with Indians on his trek over the Andes back in 1541, when he displayed his signature tactics. Even wealthy encomenderos who had fought alongside his brother Francisco Pizarro slept fitfully, if at all, knowing what awaited them should they be considered deserters from his cause—savage torture, hanging, burning alive. In Lima, the three most prominent citizens were “set astride mules, taken to the outskirts of the city, and hanged.” Using such tactics, Gonzalo ultimately executed more than three hundred of his fellow Spaniards, annihilating all who stood in his way.

  Under the circumstances, the judges the king had sent to oversee the situation were themselves terrorized into capitulation, and essentially under the sharp edge of a sword blade, they appointed Gonzalo Pizarro as governor and captain-general of Peru. That same day, October 28, 1544, Gonzalo rode into Lima at the head of his 1,200-strong army, the horses neighing and stamping amid thunderous cannon booms and the clanging of church bells. Clearly Gonzalo had no scruples about publicly ignoring the New Laws, for his munitions, cannons, and 22 pieces of field artillery were hauled into the city by some six thousand Indian porters. Once in power, Gonzalo extended his rule all the way to Panama, sending captains and forces there to buttress his position, holdings, and presence.

  In response, Viceroy Vela, who had long since fled to Quito to avoid Gonzalo’s headlong wrath, now enlisted experienced conquistador Sebastián Benalcázar, one of the vaunted Men of Cajamarca and onetime commander of Quito. He had fought alongside Francisco Pizarro but now rather reluctantly sided with Vela. What followed were many months of guerrilla fighting, with Pizarro’s larger and more experienced armies dogging the smaller Vela-Benalcázar force all across the land, spanning bone-dry deserts and jagged mountains and the swampy Peruvian coastline, with the viceroy always in retreat. These feint-and-parry skirmishes culminated in a final meeting of the two armies on the field of Añaquito, just five or six miles from the high mountain city of Quito.

  Nearly a year of running left the Vela-Benalcázar army weakened and sparse and short of gunpowder. At Añaquito, Pizarro held a distinct advantage numerically, at 700 soldiers to just 400, and Pizarro’s troops proved better armed and prepared as well, “because they were skilled from long practice and had plenty of good powder.” Gonzalo rode in at the head of a hundred horsemen, confusing the opposition, and though Viceroy Vela fought bravely along with his own cavalry, in very short order he found himself overwhelmed on a low knoll, where one of Pizarro’s soldiers struck him a blow with a two-handled battle-axe, knocking him to the muddy ground. A Negro slave moved in to finish Viceroy Vela, striking off his head, “which was stuck on a pike and paraded among the victors, some of whom tore the hairs from the beard as the grisly trophy passed them.”

  The viceroy’s head was summarily and ingloriously ridden into Quito and for a time displayed on a gibbet, but when Gonzalo Pizarro learned of this disrespectful act he ordered the head removed and buried along with the body, and he marched as chief mourner, showing his respect for a fallen compatriot, albeit a rival and thus an enemy. Almost immediately, illustrating reverence for past service and an uncharacteristic clemency, Gonzalo pardoned Benalcázar, allowing him to return to his own jurisdiction with part of the surviving army, under the provision that he swear to obey and serve the Pizarro name. By late January 1546, Gonzalo Pizarro was now effectively the supreme ruler—some would even say king—of Peru.

  Had he actually become king of Peru, as some of his closest confidants and encomendero allies suggested he do—breaking free from the tethers of the Spanish throne altogether and declaring Peru an independent monarchy—his rule over the land would no doubt have lasted much longer. In a drunken and raucous postvictory celebration, Pizarro’s cronies rallied around their new master and conceived a kingdom and dynasty, wherein Pizarro himself would handpick (presumably from among his friends) dukes, duchesses, marquises, and counts, assuring his rule into perpetuity. These fanciful notions seemed forgotten the next day, or perhaps Gonzalo, whose origins were humble, his education primarily in the martial arts, thought of himself as more soldierly than kingly.

  But chivalrous victory in battle begets some degree of pomp and ceremony, and Gonzalo was certainly not against accepting a glorious hero’s welcome on his return to Lima. There was even a suggestion by some of the local clergy and citizenry that a number of the city’s buildings be razed for the construction of a large avenue entering the city that would thereafter bear the name of the victor Gonzalo Pizarro, but he declined such a tribute. Still, his entry into Lima in September 1546 included plenty of pageantry, for he rode in gleaming armor, wearing a red velvet cap, with the crimson and gold banner of Spain snapping as he came:

  A procession was formed of the citizens, the soldiers and the clergy, and Pizarro made his entry into the capital with two of his principal captains on foot, holding the reins of his charger, while the archbishop of Lima, and the bishops of Cuzco, Quito, and Bogata … rode by his side. The streets were strewn with boughs, the walls of the houses hung with showy tapestries, and triumphal arches were thrown over the way in honor of the victor. Every balcony, veranda, and housetop was crowded with spectators. The bells rang out their joyous peals, as on his former entrance into the capital; and amidst strains of enl
ivening music, and the blithe sounds of jubilee, Gonzalo held on his way to the palace of his brother. Peru was once more placed under the dynasty of the Pizarros.

  The newly self-appointed governor and captain-general of Peru now possessed an empire that stretched from Panama to Chile, a stunning swath of southwestern America that he controlled with a nautical fleet and a powerful coastal and interior army and cavalry. Then, in a stroke of gratuitous fortune, immense wealth was assured Pizarro when workers at the Potosi mine, on his encomienda at La Plata, unearthed a massive vein of silver. The vein was so rich, in fact, that all the other mines in the region were abandoned to work only this one, which guaranteed a richer haul than any yet (or since) mined in Peru, or even in Mexico under Cortes.* In one of history’s greatest ironies, the man who went looking for El Dorado, and very nearly died searching vainly for it, quite accidentally struck silver under his own feet—and it made him fabulously wealthy.

  For a time, as would be natural for a young and impetuous man of only thirty-four years who had lived as hard and adventurous a life as he had, and who had achieved so much, Gonzalo let the wealth and fame and power go to his head. He chose to dine in public at elaborate gatherings attended by no fewer than one hundred guests, and—probably to avoid the fate of his brother Francisco—always attended by 80 to 100 well-armed guards. But despite all his newly won comforts, there remained a nagging unease, for Gonzalo Pizarro must surely have known that, as popular and seemingly untouchable as he was in Peru, hailed as a savior and conqueror, he was no doubt equally reviled in Spain, for he had audaciously ignored the king’s laws and, worse, he had been responsible for the death and beheading of the king’s own appointed viceroy. These actions, he well understood, would eventually bring consequences. Someone, at some time, would arrive in Vela’s place. It was only a matter of when.

  As it turned out, Vela’s replacement and Gonzalo’s new nemesis was already near, in Panama.

  Back in Spain, while Charles did not know the full extent of the ongoing rebellion and the shameful Spaniard-on-Spaniard battle at Añaquito, he had enough information already to have seen the error in his appointment of Vela, and he made a backup plan, overseen by his son, Prince Philip. Charles and his council nominated and elected a judicious, politically savvy, and highly educated ecclesiastic, a man with a master of theology degree and a proven war record, named Pedro de la Gasca. Gasca, devoutly loyal to the throne, readily accepted the perilous Peruvian mission, an appointment confirmed in a letter handwritten by Charles, and took on his title of President of the Royal Audience of Lima with tremendous pride and responsibility and humility. Nothing less than the fate of the Spanish Empire rested in his able hands, and the king and court reasoned that if Gasca’s judiciousness and shrewd political dexterity could not bring Gonzalo Pizarro to some semblance of obedience, then the cause might well be lost.

  But what only King Charles, Prince Philip, their closest court officials, and Pedro de la Gasca knew at the time (and this Gasca would keep quite to himself until the information proved essential or efficacious) was that his title of President of the Royal Audience of Lima carried with it unprecedented powers, powers never previously bestowed on any man in Spain’s history save a king. As head of every major department in the colony of Peru—judicial, military, and civil—he and he alone had the power to declare war, levy troops, appoint or dissolve offices or military positions, punish or pardon whomever and however he saw fit, granting amnesty to rebels if it made political sense; and he could, at his discretion, repeal or annul any of the New Laws. He carried on his person a stack of royal writs, blank but bearing the royal signature or seal. He and he alone was empowered to write above that seal or signature in any way he chose. Gasca wielded awesome power, but even more important, he possessed the shrewd and learned diplomacy to wield it wisely.

  As soon as he arrived in the New World—landing first in the port of Santa Marta, Colombia, and then traveling on to Nombre de Díos in Panama—Gasca learned of the unfortunate battle at Añaquito and of Gonzalo Pizarro’s absolute rule across the land. He determined to act quickly and resolutely, but he also showed notable restraint and stealth, arriving not with a gaudy show of regal display or military force, but landing instead under the guise of an interested and passionate man of the cloth—in spare and humble clerical attire, with a small retinue of followers. Nothing about Gasca’s appearance or arrival suggested anything of the unparalleled powers he bore beneath his modest tunic. Indeed, on learning of his arrival, one of Pizarro’s soldiers charged with guarding the Panamanian coastline remarked lightly, “If this is the sort of governor His Majesty sends over to us, Pizarro need not trouble his head much about it.” It was precisely the reception that Gasca had conspired and orchestrated. Now, he was safely and inconspicuously landed, and he was free to begin his machinations, which were swift and effective.

  Very soon, using his austere bearing, a sensible, persuasive diplomacy, and a desire for peaceful resolution, Gasca had met with the governor of Panama as well as Pizarro’s naval captains there, and after quietly and by slow degrees revealing to them the scope and breadth of his authority, he had effectively seized control of Pizarro’s significant twenty-two-ship naval fleet. Next, wishing to communicate directly with Gonzalo Pizarro, he asked that a ship be dispatched immediately bearing two letters to Pizarro, one from King Charles and the other from Gasca himself. This request met, Gasca waited and plotted and wrote—sending literally hundreds of letters to the most important and powerful followers of Gonzalo Pizarro all across Peru, declaring the New Laws revoked and encouraging them now to acquiesce to the royalist side.

  The letters to Pizarro were lengthy but straightforward in content. They neither threatened nor warned nor admonished Pizarro for his actions against Vela or his outright snubbing of the New Laws. Instead, the king’s letter suggested that Pizarro’s conduct had been commensurate to the circumstances, and implied that he would be pardoned and receive amnesty (and his followers would as well) should they simply lay down their arms and allow Gasca to proceed with his work. The letter signed by the king asked, mainly, that Pizarro cooperate with President Gasca in every way so that there might be a peaceful resolution.

  Gasca’s personal letter went even further. In it, he told Pizarro that the New Laws had been revoked, so that the very conditions that had prompted Pizarro’s rebellion no longer existed. The dissolution of the New Laws had been conceded; the viceroy Vela who had imposed them so strictly was dead, so now there remained nothing for Pizarro to rebel against. All that remained was for Pizarro and his supporters to formally relinquish rule and display their loyalty and obedience to the crown, and all would be forgiven. He and his followers would even be given the opportunity for “new conquests … and future discoveries and [thereby] gain wealth and honor.” But if Pizarro opted to remain in opposition and rebellion, that rebellion would now clearly be against his sovereign. Gasca deftly reminded Pizarro that few colonists wished to be in open rebellion against the crown, and that most would surely abandon him should he persist. He ended by appealing to Pizarro’s honor as a soldier and a subject, suggesting at last that Pizarro’s failure to comply would prove that he was motivated not by patriotism but by personal ambition.

  Gonzalo Pizarro considered the letters, met with his councils, and then made the most fateful decision of his short life. He declared outright rebellion against his king. He opted for war, and he soon got it.

  Gasca’s manipulations from Panama had been effective, his letters delivered into the right hands, and by summer of 1547, when Gasca himself finally arrived on mainland Peru, already most of the northern cities, including Quito, had crumbled and acquiesced to the king’s side and now flew the royal banner. By the end of the summer, desertions among Gonzalo’s highest officers made it clear to him that he must abandon Lima, for his own army had now dwindled to a mere five hundred men, while Gasca’s force included Sebastián Benalcázar (whom Gonzalo now must have wished he had hanged rather
than pardoned) and Alonso de Alvarado, who had long commanded under Francisco Pizarro. Desertions and defections by such long-trusted brethren were difficult for Gonzalo to bear, but he hardly had time to consider them as his power and rule collapsed all around him and he drove south for the coastal area of Arequipa, where he vowed to hold out no matter who abandoned him, declaring, “If but ten only remain true to me, fear not but I will again be master of Peru!”

  These were the wishful and boastful words of a stubborn conquistador clinging to a lost dream and a lost cause. For now Pizarro learned that his own navy, appropriated by Gasca and sailing under the royal banner, was headed to various Peruvian ports. Knowing he must flee, he mounted up and rode his army east over the Andes to Lake Titicaca (which, at some 12,500 feet, is the highest lake in the world navigable to large vessels). There, on the southeastern shore, Pizarro’s smaller but well-armed force met Gasca’s on the high plains of Huarina. God fought that day, according to one chronicler, “on the side of the heaviest artillery,” for though he was outnumbered two to one, Pizarro’s army possessed an impressive 350 harquebuses, and many of his harquebusiers charged into battle bearing two loaded weapons, one in each hand.

  Pizarro commanded the cavalry and he rode at the vanguard, now a proud and defiant rebel and outright traitor. The two sides charged into action, the horses’ hooves pounding across the high alpine plain, the harquebus fire deafening and percussive against the clear cobalt skies. The swordsmen and pikemen gasped for air as they hacked and speared at one another in desperate hand-to-hand combat. By the end of the day, October 26, 1547, when the smoke from the guns finally cleared, miraculously—and owing unquestionably to his superior artillery—Gonzalo Pizarro and his smaller army had won the Battle of Huarina, killing 350 of Gasca’s men while losing only 80 of his own. Another one hundred of Gasca’s severely wounded men perished that night, unable to move or retreat and freezing to death in that high, biting-cold, and inhospitable place.