Those who were present swore that the miracle was visible to everyone, that an angelic figure, brilliant as lightning, descended over the field, flooding the day with a supernatural light. Some believed they recognized the person of the apostle Santiago, Saint James, riding upon a white steed, and that he faced the savages, delivered an eloquent sermon, and ordered them to surrender to the Christians. Others saw the figure of Nuestra Señora del Socorro, a resplendent lady robed in gold and silver, floating high in the air. The Indian prisoners confessed they had seen a flame that traced a large arc in the sky and exploded with a great noise, leaving a trail of stars in the air. In later years scholars have offered different versions; they suggest that the “miracle” was a celestial meteor, something like an enormous rock that had broken away from the sun and fallen to earth. I have never seen one of those meteors, but I marvel that they take the form of Santiago or the Virgin, and also that one should fall precisely at a time and a place that so greatly favored the Spaniards. Miracle or meteor, I do not know, but the fact remains that the Indians fled in fear and the Christians were left masters of the field, celebrating an undeserved victory.
According to the news that reached Santiago, Valdivia took around three hundred prisoners—although he admitted only two hundred to the king—and ordered the following punishment: he had their right hands hacked off with hatchets, and their noses with knives. While several soldiers forced a prisoner to place his arm upon a block of wood and black executioners wielded their sharp hatchets, others cauterized the stumps by submerging them in boiling oil. That prevented the victim from bleeding to death, so he would be able to carry the lesson to his tribe. Then a third group mutilated the faces of the hapless Mapuche warriors. The Spaniards threw hands and noses into baskets as blood soaked the earth. In his letter to the king, Valdivia said that after dispensing justice, he called the captives together and spoke to them, for among them were caciques and other important Indians. He declared that he had done that “because he had sent messages many times with conditions for peace, and they had not been answered.” On top of their torture, then, the Indians had to endure a harangue in Spanish. Those who still could stand went stumbling off toward the forest, to show their stumps to their fellows. Many of the amputees fainted, but then came to their senses and followed, filled with loathing, and not giving their victimizers the pleasure of seeing them beg or moan in pain. When the executioners were so weary and nauseated they could no longer lift the hatchets and knives, soldiers had to take their place. They threw basketloads of hands and noses into the river, where they floated down to the sea, carried by the bloody current.
When I heard what had happened, I asked Rodrigo what the purpose of that carnage had been; in my eyes it seemed that it would bring horrible consequences because after such an event we could not expect mercy from the Mapuche, only the worst vengeance. Rodrigo explained that sometimes these things were needed to frighten the enemy.
“And would you have done the same?” I wanted to know.
“I think not, Inés, but I wasn’t there, and I cannot judge the captain general’s decisions.”
“I was with Pedro for ten years, Rodrigo, through good and bad times, and this does not sound like the person I knew. Pedro has changed greatly, and I must tell you that I am happy we are no longer together.”
“War is war. I pray to God that it will soon end, and that we can found this nation in peace.”
“If war is war, we can also justify Francisco de Aguirre’s massacres in the north,” I told him.
Following the brutal object lesson, Valdivia collected what food and animals were left to confiscate from the Indians and took them back to the fort. He sent messengers to all the towns, announcing that in fewer than four months, with the aid of the apostle Santiago and Nuestra Señora, he had made progress in imposing peace in the land. I thought he was a little quick to sing victory.
In the three years he had left to live, I saw Pedro de Valdivia very seldom, and had news of him only through other people. While Rodrigo and I were prospering almost without realizing it, and wherever we looked our herds were flourishing, our crops were multiplying, and gold was leaping from the rock, the gobernador was devoting himself to building forts and founding cities in the south. First he would plant the cross and the flag, and if there was a priest, they would hold mass. Then he would erect the “tree of justice,” or gallows, and begin to cut trees for building a defensive wall and dwellings. The most difficult part of the venture was to find people to populate the settlement, but little by little soldiers and their families would arrive. That was how, among others, Concepción, La Imperial, and Villarrica came about, the latter near the gold found on a tributary of the Bío-Bío. Those mines produced so generously that gold dust was used to buy bread, meat, fruit, vegetables—anything for sale, since gold was the only currency. Merchants, tavern keepers, and vendors went about carrying scales for buying and selling. The conquistadors’ dream had come true, and now no one dared call Chile the “country of rotos,” or the “graveyard of Spaniards.” The city of Valdivia was founded at that time, so named at the insistence of the captains, not because of the gobernador’s vanity. Its coat of arms describes it: “a river and a city of silver.” Soldiers told that hidden in the depths of the cordillera was the famed City of the Caesars, all gold and precious stones, defended by beautiful Amazons—in other words, the persistent El Dorado myth—but Pedro de Valdivia, a practical man, did not waste time or manpower looking for it.
Numerous military reinforcements came to Chile by land and by sea, but they were never enough to occupy that vast territory of coast, forest, and mountain. To win his soldiers’ loyalty, the governor distributed lands and Indians with his usual generosity, but these were empty gifts, poetic intentions, since the lands were virgin and the natives indomitable. The Mapuche would work only when brutally forced.
Valdivia’s leg had healed, and though it was always painful, he could now ride a horse. Tirelessly he traveled across the vast south with his small army, penetrating dark, humid forests where a high canopy of green was pierced by araucaria pines that traced an austere geometry against the sky. The horses’ hooves sank into soft, fragrant humus as the riders slashed their way through the at times impenetrable growth of ferns. They crossed streams of frigid water where birds often could be seen trapped in ice along the banks, the same waters in which Mapuche mothers submerged their newborn infants. The lakes were pristine mirrors of the intense blue of the skies, so calm that one could count the pebbles on the bottom. Spiders wove their dew-pearled lace among the branches of oaks, myrtles, and hazel trees. Forest birds chirped their chorus: finches, crown sparrows, linnets, ringdoves, and thrushes, even the “carpenter bird,” the woodpecker marking time with his eternal drumming. As the soldiers passed, they flushed clouds of butterflies, and curious deer came near enough to greet them. Light filtered through the leaves, projecting patterns onto the ground, and mist rising from the warm earth wrapped the world in a mysterious vapor. Rain, more rain; rivers; lakes; white, foaming waterfalls: a liquid universe. And always in the background, the snow-capped mountains, smoking volcanoes, drifting clouds. The autumn landscape was gold and blood red, bejeweled, magnificent. Pedro de Valdivia’s soul escaped his body, captured among slim, moss-covered tree trunks as soft as velvet. The Garden of Eden, the promised land, paradise. Mute, his face wet with tears, the conquered conqueror was coming to know the place where the land ends: Chile.
On one occasion, Valdivia was riding with his soldiers through a forest of hazel trees, when bits of gold began to rain from the treetops. Speechless before such a marvel, the soldiers jumped from their horses and rushed to collect the yellow nuggets, while Valdivia, as astounded as his men, attempted to instill order. The enthralled Spaniards, quarreling over the gold, looked up to find themselves surrounded by a hundred Mapuche archers whom Lautaro had taught to aim at the vulnerable parts of the body not covered by armor. In fewer than ten minutes, the woods were stre
wn with dead and wounded. Before the survivors could react, the Indians had disappeared, as stealthily as they had moments before materialized. Later the Spaniards found that the lure had been river pebbles covered with a thin layer of gold.
Some weeks later, another detachment of Spaniards, exploring the region, heard female voices. They rode forward at a trot and parted the ferns to be met by the seductive scene of a group of girls bathing in the river, their heads crowned with flowers, their long black hair their only covering. These mythic Undines continued their frolic with no signs of fear as the soldiers spurred their horses and charged toward the river with yells of anticipation. The lust-filled, bearded satyrs did not get far before their horses sank up to their flanks in the swamp bordering their side of the river. The men dismounted, intending to pull the animals toward solid ground, but imprisoned in their heavy armor they, too, began to sink, at which point Lautaro’s implacable archers had appeared and riddled the Spaniards with arrows while the naked Mapuche beauties celebrated the carnage from the far shore.
Valdivia soon realized that he had come up against a general as skillful as himself, someone who knew the Spaniards’ weaknesses, but he was not overly concerned; he was certain of triumph. The Mapuche, however warlike and cunning they might be, could not measure up against the military might of his experienced captains and soldiers. It was only a question of time, he said, before the land of the Araucans would be his. It did not take long to learn the name traveling from mouth to mouth. Lautaro, the toqui who dared defy the Spaniards. Lautaro. It never occurred to Valdivia that the famed warrior was his former stable boy Felipe; he discovered that the day of his death. He would stop in the isolated hamlets of the colonists and preach his invincible optimism. Juana Jiménez accompanied him, as I once had done, while María de Encio stewed in her own juices in Santiago. Valdivia wrote letters to the king, reiterating that the savages understood the need to accept the designs of his majesty and the blessings of the Christian faith, and that he had tamed that most beautiful, fertile, peaceful land in which all that was lacking were Spaniards and horses. Among those messages, he interspersed requests for new favors, which the emperor ignored.
Pastene, the admiral of a flotilla composed of two ancient ships, explored the coast from north to south, and back north again, fighting invisible currents, black waves, and proud winds that shredded his sails, in a vain search for the passage between the two oceans. It would be a different captain, in 1554, who would locate the strait Magellan had discovered in 1520. Pedro de Valdivia died before it was found, and before fulfilling his dream of extending the conquest to that point on the map.
In Pastene’s pilgrimage, he sailed to idyllic places he described with Italian eloquence, omitting the abuses others reported. In one remote inlet, his sailors were welcomed with food and gifts by friendly Indians, whom the Spaniards rewarded by raping the women, killing many of the men, and capturing others they took in chains to Concepción, where they exhibited them like animals in a fair. Valdivia believed that this incident, like so many in which his soldiers behaved badly, did not merit paper and ink. He did not mention it to the king.
Other captains, like Villagra and Alderete, came and went, galloping through valleys, scaling mountains, disappearing into forests, sailing the lakes, leaving marks of their harsh presence all through that enchanted region. They would from time to time tangle briefly with bands of Indians, but Lautaro was careful not to show his true strength while he was meticulously laying his plans in the heart of Araucanía. Michimalonko had been killed in an encounter with Lautaro, and some of his warriors had allied themselves with their brothers, the Mapuche, but Valdivia was successful in retaining a good number of them. The gobernador insisted on pushing his conquest toward the south, but the more territory he occupied, the less he could control. He had to leave soldiers in each city to protect the settlers, and assign others to exploring, punishing the Indians, and stealing cattle and food. His army was divided into small parties that might go for months without communicating among themselves.
During the raw winter, the conquistadors took refuge in the settlements, which they called towns; it took enormous energy for them to move heavy supplies across swampy ground, even more when exposed to rain and dawn frosts and the bone-penetrating winds off the snows. From May to September the earth rested; everything grew still and only the raging rivers, beating rain, lightning, and thunderstorms interrupted the winter’s sleep. In that time of rest and early dark, Valdivia was haunted by demons, and his soul was beset with premonitions and regrets. When he was not on his horse with his sword at his side, his mood was dark, and he convinced himself that he was pursued by bad fortune. In Santiago we heard rumors that the gobernador had changed greatly, that he was aging rapidly, that his men did not honor him with the blind trust of the early days. According to Cecilia, Valdivia’s star rose when he met me and began to decline when he left me behind, a frightening theory because I do not want the glory for his successes or the guilt for his failures. Each of us is master of his or her own destiny. Valdivia spent those icy months indoors, bundled in wool ponchos, warming himself before a brazier, and writing his letters to the king as Juana Jiménez served him his mate, the bitter tea that helped him bear the pain of his old wounds.
In the meantime, Lautaro’s warriors, invisible, were watching the huincas from the undergrowth, as their ñidoltoqui had ordered.
In 1552 Pedro de Valdivia traveled to Santiago. He did not know it would be his last visit, but he must have suspected because he was again tormented by black dreams. As he had before, he dreamed of massacres and awakened trembling in Juana’s arms. How do I know? Because he was taking latué bark to frighten away the nightmares. Everyone knew everything in this land. When he arrived, he found a festive city awaiting him, prosperous and well organized because Rodrigo de Quiroga had governed wisely in his place. Our lives had improved in that couple of years. Rodrigo’s house on the plaza had been renovated under my direction, converted into a mansion worthy of the teniente gobernador. As I had energy left over, I had built another residence a few blocks away, with the idea of giving it to you, Isabel, when you married. In addition, we had very comfortable houses on our summer chacras; I liked large rooms with high ceilings, galleries, orchards of fruit trees, medicinal plants, flowers. I kept domestic animals in the third patio, well guarded to protect them from being stolen. I made sure that the servants had decent quarters; it makes me angry when I see that other colonists treat their horses better than the people who serve them. As I have never forgotten that I come from humble origins, I have no problem getting along with our servants, who have always been very loyal to me. They are my family.
During those years, Catalina, still strong and healthy, tended to domestic matters, though I kept an eye on things to assure that my own servants were not abused. There were not enough hours for me to perform all my chores. I was involved with a number of businesses, with building and helping Rodrigo in his affairs, in addition to my charities—never enough time there. The line of impoverished Indians who ate in our kitchen every day wound around the Plaza de Armas. It was so long that Catalina complained about the crowds and the dirt, so I decided to inaugurate a kitchen on a different street.
A black Senegalese woman named Doña Flor had come to Chile on a ship from Panama. She was a magnificent cook, and she took on that demanding task. You know who I mean, Isabel, the same woman you know. She came to Chile with no shoes on her feet, but today she wears brocade and lives in a mansion envied by the most prominent señoras in Santiago. Her cooking was so delicious that prominent señores began to complain that indigents were eating better than they were. Then Doña Flor came up with the idea of financing the food for the poor by selling her creations to the wealthy, and earning a little for herself in the process. That was how she became rich; it was good for her, but it did not solve my problem because as soon as her purse was filled with gold she forgot about the beggars, who soon were back at my door. And they are s
till there today.
When Rodrigo learned that Valdivia was on his way to Santiago, it was clear that he was worried. He could not think how he would handle the situation without offending someone, torn as he was among his official responsibilities, his loyalty to his friend, and his desire to protect me. It had been more than two years since we had seen my former lover, and we had been very happy in his absence. Once he arrived I would no longer be the gobernadora, and I wondered, with amusement, whether María de Encio would be up to the challenge. It was difficult for me to imagine her in my place.
“I know what you are thinking, Rodrigo. Don’t worry, we won’t have any problem with Pedro,” I told him.
“Maybe it would be best if you took Isabel to the country . . . ”
“I don’t plan to run away, Rodrigo. This is my city too. While he is here I will not do anything connected with matters of government, but I will live the rest of my life as I always do.” I laughed. “I am quite sure that I will be able to see Pedro without getting weak in the knees.”
“You can’t help running into him all the time, Inés.”
“It will be more than that, Rodrigo. We will have to give him a banquet.”
“A banquet?”
“Of course. We are the second-highest authority in Chile, and it is our place to lionize him. We will invite him and his María de Encio and, if he wishes, the other woman as well. What is the Galician woman’s name?”
Rodrigo stood gazing at me with that querulous expression my ideas tended to provoke, but I planted a quick kiss on his forehead and assured him that there would not be a scandal of any kind. If truth be known, I already had several women stitching tablecloths, while Doña Flor, contracted for the occasion, was gathering the ingredients for the meal, especially the gobernador’s favorite desserts. Ships brought us molasses and sugar, which, while costly in Europe, in Chile were exorbitant, but not every dessert could be made with honey, so I resigned myself to paying the asking price. I intended to impress the guests with an array of dishes never seen in our capital. “You would be better to be thinking what you will dress yourself in, then, señorayy,” Catalina reminded me. So I had her iron an elegant dress of iridescent, coppery silk that had only recently arrived from Spain. It accentuated the color of my hair. All right, Isabel, I do not need to confess to you that I kept it that color with henna, something I learned from the Moors and the Gypsies. But you already know that. The dress was a little tight, it is true, since a happy life and Rodrigo’s love had soothed my soul and relaxed my body, but at least I would look better than María de Encio, who dressed like a harlot, and her enterprising servant, who could not compete with me. Don’t laugh, daughter. I know that may sound vicious, but it’s true: those two were very common women.
Ines of My Soul Page 31
