Ines of My Soul

by Isabel Allende

  “Do you intend to go yourself? I warn you that if you leave for a single day, you will be inviting a calamity here. You know how your friend de la Hoz is,” I said—pointlessly, since without my knowing, he had already made his decision.

  “I will leave Villagra in my place; he has a strong hand.”

  “How do you intend to entice people in Peru to come to Chile? They are not all idealists like you, Pedro. Men go where there is wealth, not glory alone.”

  “I will find a way to do it.”

  It was his idea; I had no part in it. Pedro announced with great fanfare that he was planning to send Pastene’s ship to Peru, and that any who wanted to leave and take their gold with them could do so. The response was delirious enthusiasm, for that was all anyone had been talking about in Santiago for weeks. Leave! Go back to Spain with money! That was the dream of every man who had left the old continent for the Indies: to return wealthy. Nevertheless, when the moment came to draw up the manifest, only sixteen colonists decided to take advantage of the opportunity. They sold their property for nothing, wrapped up their belongings, weighed their gold, and prepared to leave. Among the party traveling in the caravan to the port was my mentor, González de Marmolejo, who was now more than sixty years old and somehow had managed to get rich in the service of God. Señora Díaz was also going, a Spanish “lady” who had arrived in Chile a couple of years before on one of the boats. There was little lady about her; we all knew that she was a man dressed as a woman. “Balls and piripicho the doña is having between his legs, then,” Catalina told me. “Where do you get such ideas! Why would a man dress as a woman?” I asked her. “Well, why would it be, señorayy? To be getting money from other men, then,” she explained. But enough of gossip.

  On the appointed day, the travelers boarded the ship, where they arranged their trunks, with their gold inside and nailed shut for good measure, in the cabins assigned to them. At that moment Valdivia and other captains appeared on the beach, accompanied by numerous servants, to send them off with a farewell meal: delicious fish and seafood fresh from the sea, all liberally washed down with wine from the governor’s personal cellar. They set up canvas canopies on the sand, lunched like princes, and wept a little over the emotional speeches, especially the lady with the piripicho, who was very sensitive and sentimental. Valdivia insisted that to prevent any problems in the future, the colonists declare the amount of gold they were carrying, a wise measure that met with general approval. While a secretary was carefully noting in his ledger the numbers the travelers gave him, Valdivia climbed into the one available longboat, and five vigorous sailors rowed him to the ship where several of his most loyal captains were waiting, all of whom planned to join him in placing themselves at the service of the king’s cause in Peru. When the unwary would-be travelers realized they had been tricked, they stood howling with frustration, and several jumped in to swim after the longboat, but the only one who caught up to it received a thump from an oar that nearly broke his neck. I can imagine the desolation of the fleeced passengers as they watched the sails fill and the ship head off to the north, carrying with it all their earthly possessions.

  It fell to Captain Villagra, a man of action, not contemplation, to take Valdivia’s place as lieutenant governor, and to confront the furious colonists on the beach. His robust appearance, his ruddy face above well-set shoulders, his severe expression, and his hand on the grip of his sword imposed order. He explained to them that Valdivia had gone to Peru to defend the king, his lord, and to seek reinforcements for the colony in Chile. That was why he had found himself forced to do what he did, but he promised to return their last doubloon—with a corresponding sum from the mine at Marga-Marga. “Any man who is satisfied with that, well and good, and he who is not, he may settle with me,” he concluded. None of which calmed anyone.

  I can understand Pedro’s motives; he saw in that deceit—so ill-befitting his upright character—the only solution to Chile’s problem. He weighed on the scales the harm he was doing to those sixteen innocents against the need to give impetus to the conquest, benefiting thousands, and the latter tipped the scales. If he had consulted with me, I’m sure I would have approved his decision, although I would have achieved it in a more elegant manner—and I would have gone with him—but the only ones he shared his secret with were three captains. Did he think that I would talk too much and spoil his plan? Never. In the ten years we had been together, I had demonstrated my discretion and my fierce defense of his life and his interests. I think, instead, that he was afraid I would try to keep him from going. When he left he took only what was indispensable, for if he had packed properly, I would have guessed his intentions. And he left without telling me good-bye, just as Juan de Málaga had done many years before.

  Valdivia’s trap, for there was no other word for it, however high-minded the cause, turned out to be a gift from heaven for Sancho de la Hoz, who now could accuse Pedro of a specific crime: he had swindled people, stolen the fruits of years of work and deprivation from his own soldiers. He deserved the death penalty.

  When I learned that Pedro had gone, I felt much more betrayed than the deceived colonists. I lost control for the first and the last time in my life. For one whole day, I screeched with rage and destroyed everything within reach. I will show them who Inés Suárez is! No one tosses me aside like an old rag. I am the true gobernadora of Chile, and everyone knows how much they owe me. What would this accursed city be without me, anyway? I have dug irrigation ditches with my own hands; I have treated every sick and wounded person in the city; I have sown, harvested, and cooked so that no one would perish from hunger; and, as if it were nothing at all, I have wielded weapons like the best of the soldiers. Everyone knows that Pedro owes me his life; I have loved him and served him and made him happy; no one can handle his manias like I can . . . and on and on and on until Catalina and other women tied me to the bed and went to get help. I lay struggling in my bonds, possessed by the devil, with Juan de Málaga perched at the foot of my bed, making fun of me. Before long, González de Marmolejo appeared, extremely depressed. Being the eldest of the deceived, he took it for granted that he would never recover his losses, although in fact he not only recouped his wealth, with interest, but when he died several years later, he was the richest man in Chile. How had he done that? A mystery. I suppose that to some degree I had helped him, because we were partners in a horse-breeding enterprise, something that had been in my head from the first day I set out for Chile.

  The priest had come to my house prepared to attempt an exorcism, but when he realized that the source of my ranting was nothing more than the indignation of a discarded lover, he limited himself to sprinkling holy water on me and praying a few Ave Marías, a treatment that brought me back to my senses.

  The next day Cecilia came to see me. By that time she had several children, but neither motherhood nor the years had left a mark on her regal bearing and her smooth, Inca princess face. Thanks to her remarkable network of spies, and her position as the wife of our constable, Juan Gómez, she knew everything that happened behind every door in the colony—including my recent fit. She found me in bed, still exhausted by Pedro’s desertion.

  “Pedro will pay for this, Cecilia!” I said in greeting.

  “I am bringing you good news, Inés. You won’t have to take revenge; others will do it for you,” she announced.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The many malcontents we have in Santiago plan to denounce Valdivia before the royal tribunal in Peru. If he does not lose his life on the gallows, he will at least spend the rest of it in prison. See what good luck you have, Inés!”

  “That idea came from Sancho de la Hoz!” I exclaimed, leaping from the bed and starting to dress.

  “Can you imagine that the fool would ever do you such a good turn? De la Hoz has circulated a letter asking for Valdivia to be removed, and many have already signed it. Most people want to get rid of Valdivia and name de la Hoz governor,” she reported.
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  “That clown never gives up!” I muttered, tying my boots.

  A few months earlier that fiendish courtier had tried to assassinate Valdivia. Like all the plots he dreamed up, that one, too, was quite colorful. He pretended to be very ill, took to his bed, sent out word that he was dying and wanted to bid farewell to friends and enemies alike, including the gobernador. He installed one of his followers behind a curtain to knife Valdivia in the back when he bent over the bed to hear the whispers of the supposedly dying man. These ridiculous details, and the fact that he boasted about them, did de la Hoz in, because I had heard about his scheme without even trying. Once again, I warned Pedro of the danger, and he at first bellowed with laughter and refused to believe me, but later agreed to have the matter thoroughly investigated. The result was a guilty verdict; Sancho de la Hoz was sentenced to the gallows for the second or third time—I had lost count. However, not to break with tradition, Pedro pardoned him at the last hour.

  I finished dressing, told Cecilia good-bye with an apology, and ran to speak with Captain Villagra, repeating the princess’s words and assuring him that if de la Hoz were successful, the first to lose their heads would be him and other men loyal to Pedro.

  “Do you have proof, Doña Inés?” Villagra asked, flushed with anger.

  “No, only rumors, Don Franciso.”

  “That’s enough for me.”

  And with that he arrested the plotter and had him decapitated that very afternoon, not giving him time even to confess. Then he ordered that the head be paraded through the city, held by the hair, before setting it on the stocks as a lesson to anyone who might be wavering—the normal procedure. How many heads have I seen displayed this way in my lifetime? Impossible to count them. Villagra made no move against the rest of the conspirators, who were hiding like mice in their houses, because he would have had to arrest everyone in Santiago, so great was the current animosity against Valdivia. In a single night, the captain had wiped out the germ of a civil war, and had also freed us from that vermin Sancho de la Hoz. About time.

  It took Pedro de Valdivia more than a month to reach Callao, stopping at various ports in the north to await news from Santiago. He needed to be sure that Villagra had skillfully handled the situation, and was covering his back. He knew about Sancho de la Hoz’s rebellion because a messenger had caught up with him carrying the bad news, but he did not want to be directly responsible for his demise since that might bring him problems with the law. He was extraordinarily pleased that his faithful lieutenant had solved the conspiracy in his way, although he feigned surprise and displeasure at the turn of events; he had not forgotten that his enemy had had important contacts at the court of Charles V.

  To ask my forgiveness, Pedro sent from La Serena, by swift horse, a love letter and an extravagant gold ring. I tore the letter to bits and gave the ring to Catalina, under the condition that she keep it out of my sight; it made my blood boil.

  On his way north, the governor gathered together a group of ten well-placed captains whom he outfitted with armor, weapons, and horses—using the gold of the fleeced citizens of Santiago—and then set out with them to enlist under the banners of the priest La Gasca, the king’s legitimate representative in Peru. To find La Gasca’s army, the band of hidalgos had to climb the icy peaks of the Andes, spurring on their horses, which collapsed in the thin air, while altitude sickness burst their own eardrums and made them bleed through various bodily orifices. They knew that La Gasca—who had absolutely no military experience, though he was a man of exemplary character and will—would have to confront a formidable army led by an experienced and courageous general. Gonzalo Pizarro might be accused of almost anything except being fainthearted. La Gasca’s troops, who were ill from the exhaustion of the trek along the cordillera, paralyzed with cold, and terrified by the enemy’s superiority, welcomed Valdivia and his ten captains as avenging angels. To La Gasca, those hidalgos who had miraculously come to his aid were the boost he needed. He gratefully embraced them, and turned over the command to Pedro de Valdivia, the mythic conquistador of Chile, naming him field marshal. The troops immediately regained their confidence, because with this general at their head, they felt the victory was theirs. Valdivia began by winning the goodwill of the soldiers with just the right words, the result of many years of dealing with his subordinates, and then proceeded to evaluate their strengths and equipment. When he realized that he had an improbable task before him, he felt rejuvenated; his captains had not seen him so enthusiastic since the days of founding Santiago.

  To approach Cuzco, where he would engage the army of the rebellious Gonzalo Pizarro, Valdivia followed the narrow paths the Incas had carved on the lip of sheer precipices. His advancing troops resembled a line of insects in the massive scene of purple mountains, rock, ice, piercing-the-clouds peaks, wind, and condors. From time to time petrified roots protruded from cracks in the rock, and the men held on to them to rest a moment in their terrible ascent. The beasts’ hooves slipped on the cliff edges, and the roped-together soldiers had to grab their manes to keep them from tumbling into abysses. The landscape was one of overwhelming and threatening beauty, a world of refulgent light and sidereal shadows. Wind and hail had carved demons on the mountain spurs; the ice trapped in crevasses of the rocks glistened with the colors of the dawn. In the mornings, the rising sun, distant and cold, painted the peaks in tints of orange and crimson; in the evenings, the light disappeared as suddenly as it had dawned, sinking the cordillera into blackness. The nights were eternal; no one could move in the dark; men and animals huddled together, shivering, perched on the lips of dangerous overhangs.

  To alleviate altitude sickness and energize his exhausted men, Valdivia provided them with coca leaves to chew, the drug Quechua Indians had used from time immemorial. When he learned that Gonzalo Pizarro had destroyed the bridges to prevent the attacking forces from crossing rivers and gorges, he ordered the Yanaconas to braid rope from the rushes and bunchgrass growing in the area, a task they accomplished with prodigious speed. He advanced with his band of courageous men, unseen under cover of fog, to one of the bridges Pizarro had rendered unusable; there he ordered the Indians to plait their traditional fiber ropes to make a suspension bridge. One day later, La Gasca arrived with the major part of the army and found the problem resolved. They were able to move nearly a thousand soldiers, fifty horses, countless Yanaconas, and heavy armament across blood-chilling gorges, swaying in the howling winds. After that, Valdivia had to drive his fatigued soldiers to scale two leagues of steep mountainside—carrying their supplies on their backs and pulling the cannons—to the spot he had chosen to challenge Gonzalo Pizarro. Once he had stationed the weapons at strategic points in the hills, he gave the men a day or two to regain their strength, while he, imitating his maestro, the marqués de Pescara, personally reviewed the emplacement of the artillery and harquebuses, spoke with each soldier to give him instructions, and prepared the plan of battle. It seems I can see him now, on horseback, wearing his new armor, charged with energy, impatient, calculating in advance the enemy’s movements, plotting his offense like the good chess player he was. He was no longer young; he was forty-eight years old, he had put on weight, and the old wound in his hip bothered him, but even so he could ride two days and two nights without resting, and I know that in those moments he felt invincible. So sure was he of triumphing that he promised La Gasca they would lose fewer than thirty men in the battle; he lived up to his word.

  The first round of cannon fire had barely echoed among the hills when Pizarro’s forces realized that they were facing a formidable general. Many soldiers, uncomfortable with the idea that they were fighting against the king, abandoned Pizarro’s ranks to join those of La Gasca. It is said that Pizarro’s field marshal, an old fox with many years of military experience, immediately perceived the identity of his foe. “There is only one general in the New World capable of this strategy: Don Pedro de Valdivia, conquistador of Chile,” he reportedly said. His enemy did not
disappoint him, and neither did he give any quarter. At the end of several hours of battle, and of large losses, Gonzalo Pizarro had to surrender and hand over his sword to Valdivia. Several days later he was decapitated in Cuzco, beside his elderly field marshal.

  La Gasca had fulfilled his mission of stamping out the insurrection and returning Peru to Charles V. Now he had to take the place of the deposed Gonzalo Pizarro, with all the enormous power that implied. He owed his triumph to the energetic Captain Valdivia, and he rewarded him by confirming the title of gobernador of Chile given to him by the citizens of Santiago, which until that moment had not been validated by the Crown. In addition, La Gasca authorized Valdivia to recruit soldiers and take them back to Chile, as long as they were not Pizarro’s rebels or Peruvian Indians.

  Did Pedro think of me as he rode triumphant through the streets of Cuzco, or was he so puffed up with pride that he was thinking only of himself? I have asked myself a hundred times why he did not take me with him on that adventure; if he had, our fate would have been very different. He went on a military mission, it’s true, but I had always been his companion in war as well as in peace. Was he ashamed of me? Mistress, common woman, concubine. In Chile I was Doña Inés Suárez, the gobernadora, and no one recalled that we were not legally husband and wife. I myself tended to forget that. Women must have flocked to Pedro in Cuzco, and later in Ciudad de los Reyes. He was the great hero of the civil war, lord and master of Chile, supposedly rich and still attractive; any woman would have been honored to be seen on his arm. Besides, there was already talk of intrigue: assassinate La Gasca, a man of fanatic rigidity, and name Pedro de Valdivia in his place, but no one dared say that to Pedro’s face. He would have been insulted. The sword of the Valdivias had always loyally served the king, it would never be turned against him—and La Gasca represented the king.