Part 6

Advantage of position was with the defenders, and the Spaniards, we are told, were in bad shape. The strings of the crossbows, rotted by the sun, snapped when cranked tight. The arquebusers were too weak from hunger and heat to join the onslaught. Yet no one was killed and only a dozen were hurt. Within less than an hour the town surrendered, an outcome difficult to understand unless the defenders hurled their missiles so wildly that none took effect, whereupon they gave up, terrified by the enemy’s relentless momentum and flashing swords, a weapon they had never before encountered.

After Coronado had recovered from his concussion and his men had sated their hunger on Háwikuh’s corn, beans, and turkeys (which the Indians raised for feathers rather than food), he began assessing his situation. Couriers brought in delegations from the neighboring towns, and he put what he learned from them into a long letter he wrote Mendoza and dated August 3, 1540. It is a prized ethnographical document now because of its generally accurate descriptions of the Pueblos. Mendoza must have found it discouraging. No gold. But Coronado was determined, he wrote, to keep pressing the search. To strengthen his forces he sent orders, via the letter-bearers, for the bulk of the main army to advance to Háwikuh. The remainder were to establish a halfway station beside the long trail. This station was entrusted to Melchior Díaz. As soon as Díaz had put things in shape there, he was to ride to the Gulf in search of Alarcón’s supply ships. Fray Marcos, ill, disgraced, and fearing for his safety, went home with the messengers.

_On Cíbola: “Although [the Seven Cities] are not decorated with turquoises, nor made of lime or good bricks, nevertheless they are very good houses, three, four, and five storeys high, and they have very ... good rooms with corridors, and some quite good apartments underground and paved, which are built for winter and are something like hot-houses [kivas].... In [Háwikuh] are perhaps 200 houses, all surrounded by a wall.... The people of these towns are fairly large and seem to me to be quite intelligent ... most of them are entirely naked except for the covering required for decency ... they wear the hair on their heads like the Mexicans, and are well formed and comely ... the food they eat in this country consists of maize, of which they have a great abundance, beans, and game.... They make the best tortillas I have ever seen anywhere, and this is what everybody ordinarily eats.”_

—_Coronado to Mendoza, 3 August 1540_

Meanwhile exploring parties had gone northwest from Háwikuh to lay claim to the “kingdom of Tusayan,” or, as we would say, the Hopi villages. Nothing the Spaniards wanted was there, either—except for ill-understood talk about a big river farther to the west. It could be crucial. It must flow into the sea and might furnish a route inland for Alarcón. Promptly Coronado ordered Garcia López de Cárdenas to investigate.

The result was the first sighting, by Europeans, of the Grand Canyon at a point generally believed to have been Desert View. Awed by the chasm, the party explored along the rim until thirst turned them back. Clearly such a stream could not serve as a supply route.

A few weeks later and many hundreds of miles farther downstream Melchior Díaz at last unearthed (literally) the first clues about Hernando de Alarcón’s whereabouts. After straightening out affairs at the halfway station named San Gerónimo, he led 25 cavalrymen and some Indians west to the Gulf’s torrid coast, driving a herd of sheep along for food. A swing north along the desolate beaches brought him to the banks of a river. He continued along it for perhaps 90 miles, until encountering Indians who showed him where another bearded man like himself had hidden some letters. The documents he dug up have since disappeared, but from other sources it is possible to guess what they said.

Alarcón had reached the river mouth about August 25, 1540. He had been preceded there by Cortés’s man, Francisco de Ulloa, who a year earlier had been trying to find an inlet that would enable his commander to beat Mendoza to the Seven Cities. Because Ulloa believed that Baja California was an island, he had been surprised to find himself pinched into the head of a gulf. A most disconcerting place—shoals, seemingly bottomless mudbanks, and a terrifying tidal bore, raging tumults of water caused when the inflowing tide rushed in a great wave upriver against the current.

The sight had turned Ulloa back, but Alarcón was more persistent. He worked a tortuous way through the shoals and, with waves dashing over the deck of his flagship, rode the bore into the channel on August 26. Unable to sail upward against the current, he anchored his three vessels behind a protecting point. Lowering two ship’s launches, he ticked off 20 men, some to work the oars, the others to walk along the bank, pulling two ropes. Eventually Cócopa Indians appeared, highly excited. None of them understood the _lingua franca_ of his interpreter, but by signs and a passing out of trinkets, Alarcón in time prevailed on them to bring food and to help with the cordelling.

On September 6, two months after the battle at Háwikuh, the slow-moving boats reached, it is believed, a point near the junction of the Colorado and Gila rivers, the site of today’s Yuma, Arizona. Nearby, Alarcón’s interpreter found Indians with whom he could converse. Their news was startling. Far inland, white men were causing trouble among the native inhabitants. Coronado’s army, surely, which Alarcón had been directed to supply. But how?

When none of his own men and none of the Indians would agree to carry a message to Háwikuh, Alarcón decided to return to the ships, take on fresh supplies, and go to Cíbola himself. During the attempt he advanced one day’s journey farther upstream than he had gone before, but then physical difficulties and the growing hostility of the Indians forced him to halt. After burying the letter Díaz found, he returned to Mendoza with valuable information about the new land—but, again, no gold.

Having found the letter, Díaz continued upstream for another five or six days, perhaps to learn whether this was indeed the lower end of the big river about which the Hopis had spoken. Evidently satisfied that it was, he sent the Indian footmen of his party and the sheep across the stream on rafts made of reeds. Riders swam over on their horses, and the whole party turned back downstream. At some point in those grisly deserts, Díaz’s greyhound began tormenting a sheep. Díaz ran at the dog with his lance. The point stuck in the ground. Before he could stop his horse, the butt pierced his groin. His distraught men put him on a litter, recrossed the river (it is very low in the fall of the year), and hurried toward San Gerónimo, to no avail. He died and was buried no one knows where.

Of the Coronado party’s far-flung explorations, the one that had the greatest impact on its future was Hernando de Alvarado’s trip to the Great Plains. It was touched off by the appearance at Háwikuh, late in August, of a still undefined party of Indians—traders probably, but perhaps a group who felt they should learn more about what was going on in Cíbola.

They hailed from the pueblo of Cicuyé, located near a river we call Pecos in north-central New Mexico. (Cicuyé was the inhabitants’ name for their town; Pecos, now applied to both the river and the pueblo ruins, derives from _Pekush_, a word other Pueblo Indians used in speaking of the settlement.) The travelers were led by an elder whom the Spaniards called _Cacique_, as if it were a name. (Actually, it was an Arawak word meaning “chief.” The _conquistadores_ had picked it up first in the West Indies and later had applied it to Indian leaders throughout Latin America.) Accompanying Cacique was a husky, talkative young man adorned with drooping mustaches, unusual in an Indian. Coronado’s people named him _Bigotes_, or, in English, Whiskers. Bigotes apparently spoke some Nahuatl, which meant he could converse after a fashion with a few of the explorers, notably Father Juan de Padilla, who seems to have been going slowly mad. Another attention-catcher among the visitors was an Indian from the Great Plains who had a painted picture of a buffalo on his bare chest.

Coronado considered the newcomers a peace delegation. He gave them glass trinkets, beads, and little bells that entranced them. They responded with head dresses, shields, and a wooly hide that, they signified, had been taken from an animal like the one pictured on the chest of one of their number. As the concept became clearer, pulses jumped, for here was a firm tie-in with Cabeza de Vaca’s story about the huge “cows” of the new land and of multistoried cities nearby.

Eager to learn more, Coronado prevailed on the amiable group to lead a party of his own men eastward to see Cicuyé and its surrounding lands—24 riders, four crossbowmen, Fray Juan de Padilla, and a lay brother, Luís de Ubeda. In high spirits they struck off through a malpais of congealed, jumbled, sharp-edged boulders of black lava that made the riders dismount and lead their suffering animals. This short-cut brought them to the amazing town of Acucu (today’s Acoma), perched on the summit of a butte approachable (as far as the Spaniards saw) only by a stairway carved into the pink sandstone. After an uneasy confrontation at the base of the cliffs, the Indians of Acucu invited them to climb arduously to the top, where they were heaped with presents of hides, cotton cloth, turkeys and other foods.

Acoma: Ancient Village in the Sky

Acoma embodies a thousand years of Pueblo life. According to an origin belief, the first dwellers were guided here by _Iatiku_, “mother of all Indians.” Archeologists trace occupation to at least late Basketmaker times (AD 700). A few centuries later, ancestral Pueblos are living on top in houses of stone and adobe.

The native word for Acoma is _ʔá-·k′u_, a word of ancient root that means “place of preparedness.” In September 1540, Alvarado’s men arrived at the great rock and marveled at the sight of the village and its people (about 200) on top. “The village was very strong,” said a Spaniard, so difficult of access that no army could assault it.

The Acomans came down to the plain ready to fight the Spaniards. But when they saw that the intruders could not be frightened off, they offered peace and gave them food and deerskins.

This illustration is artist L. Kenneth Townsend’s interpretation of the village about 1540—a world outside time.

Pleasant encounters characterized the rest of the journey east. Alvarado sent a cross ahead of his party to the “province” of Tiguex (rendered Tiwa today), a concentration of 12 pueblos located on both sides of the Rio Grande in a broad valley at the foot of the abrupt Sandía Mountains. Thus prepared, retinues of important elders greeted them, decked out in ceremonial regalia and marching to the shrill piping of bone flutes. Presumably either Alvarado or Fray Padilla read them the _requerimiento_ that made each town subject to the King of Spain. To this they added the Church’s authority by erecting in the villages they visited, as far north as Braba (Taos), large crosses made by Brother Luis de Ubeda with an adze and chisel he had brought along for this purpose. Reactions were surprising, perhaps because the Indians also used varieties of the cross pattern in some of their ceremonies. They eagerly bedecked Brother Luis’s Christian symbols with prayer feathers and rosettes made of plant fiber, sometimes climbing on each other’s shoulders to reach the tops of the cruciforms.

Impressed by Tiguex’s friendly people and stores of food, Alvarado sent Coronado a message suggesting that the recombined army winter there rather than in the high, cold lands of Cíbola. Then on he went across what is now called Glorieta Pass into the valley of the Pecos River.

There on a flat-topped ridge between a tributary stream and the main river was the finest pueblo the Spaniards had seen. The pattern was familiar: terraced houses rising four stories high around several plazas. Additional storage was provided in extensions running out from some of the corners of the main square. Balconies that provided walkways for the people on the upper floors served also to shade those beneath. Ladders running through holes in the walks served in the place of stairs. A constant need for firewood and building material had eliminated the forests for a mile or more around the pueblo, opening fine vistas of the high peaks of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains to the north, the red cliffs of Glorieta Mesa to the west, and the lower Tecolote foothills to the east.

By dominating the main trail linking the Plains Indians and the Pueblos of the Southwest, Cicuyé had become an even more powerful trade center than Háwikuh, and its people boasted that no enemy had been able to conquer them. But what of these bearded strangers who, with their swords and horses, had overrun Háwikuh in a single rush? Acting perhaps on the advice of Bigotes and Cacique, the people of Cicuyé decided to be friendly. An unarmed delegation marched out beating drums, playing on bone whistles, and carrying gifts. They listened blankly to the reading of the _requerimiento_, which demanded their submission to the King of Spain, then let the strangers rest among them for a few days (meanwhile keeping their young women out of sight), and gladly furnished guides when Alvarado announced he wished to continue far enough east to see the “cows” and the people who lived among them.

The guides were Plains Indians. Though they have been called “slaves” of Bigotes and Cacique, it seems more likely they were traders who, having been stranded in Cicuyé after bartering their goods, earned their keep by performing menial tasks while waiting for an opportunity to return home. One was named Ysopete, and may have been—accounts vary—the youth whose chest bore the tattoo of a buffalo. A Wichita Indian from central Kansas, Ysopete designated his homeland as Quivira: thus a new word in American mythology. With him was El Turco, the Turk, so-called by the Spaniards “because,” wrote Pedro de Castañeda, “he looked like one.” The resemblance probably arose from his turban, a headdress used by the Pawnees of eastern Kansas, or, in the Turk’s language, Harahey.

Shortly after reaching the plains east of the Pecos River, Alvarado’s explorers found themselves in the middle of a vast herd of buffalo. Lancing the huge beasts from a running horse and afterwards dining on the tender, roasted meat of their humps made for high living, but the sport was soon forgotten in a greater excitement. The Turk said he knew where there was gold. In Quivira. And even more in Harahey.

Did the Pawnee (if he was a Pawnee) really say that? Some anthropologists, Carroll Riley and Mildred Mott Wedell among them, have wondered. As a trader, the Turk knew a smattering of Nahuatl, as did the missionary friar, Juan de Padilla, one of his chief interrogators. To this stumbling _lingua franca_, El Turco added the fluent sign language of the Plains Indians, bits of which the Spaniards were beginning to pick up, though not as skillfully as they thought. Moreover, the talkers on both sides were discussing ideas and objects the others know nothing about. These opportunities for misunderstanding were immeasurably increased by the determination of Juan de Padilla to find the legendary Seven Cities of Antilia.

A word about Padilla. He had served as a soldier under Cortés in Mexico until deciding to enter the Franciscan order. He was hot-tempered, obstinate, and consumed with the hope of bringing the lost citizens—the wealthy, Christian citizens—of Antilia back into the mainstream of Catholicism. He believed implicitly that their gorgeous metropolises lay somewhere in the north. Meager Háwikuh and the Hopi villages had shocked him profoundly, but word of true urban centers farther east—Quivira!—reinvigorated his faith. He talked earnestly to the Turk about the kind of places he wanted to discover and listened with intense preconceptions to the trader’s answers.

Out yonder, the Turk told him, was a wide river full of fish as big as horses. The canoes on the river held 20 or more rowers to a side, and their lords sat in the sterns under brilliant awnings. This tale corresponds with what the Gentleman of Elvas said about the canoes De Soto saw on reaching the Mississippi half a year later. So maybe El Turco had witnessed, during his wanderings, the Indian flotillas of the lower Mississippi and the fish as well—gar can reach 10 feet in length. The chiefs of the canoe tribes, he went on, were lulled to sleep by little bells of gold (_acochis_) tinkling in the breeze. They ate (a standard fantasy) from dishes molded out of _acochis_. But _acochis_, it developed years later, was a Spanish rendering of _hawichis_, a generic Pawnee term for any metal. Copper, perhaps? It was rare on the Plains and in the Southwest, but there was some and it was displayed conspicuously by important men.

That may be all the Turk said at first. But it was not all that Padilla and the rest of Alvarado’s explorers heard. They harassed the Indian for proof that he was telling the truth. Frightened, eager to get them off his back, and desirous, possibly, of causing trouble for Bigotes, whom he may not have liked, El Turco said he had once owned a bit of _acochis_, but that Whiskers had taken it from him. The Spaniards understood that the object was a bracelet.

By then the autumn days were growing cold, and it was time for Alvarado to rejoin the army assembling in the Rio Grande Valley. On his way back through Cicuyé, he confronted Bigotes and Cacique with El Turco’s charge. They said they know nothing about the matter. Reluctant to set himself up as judge without Coronado’s authorization, Alvarado seized the pair, put them in chains—as he later did the Turk and Ysopete when the one-time guides sought to disappear—and hurried out of the pueblo through a shower of curses and arrows hurled after him by the outraged inhabitants.

In Tiguex, too, affability had vanished. To provide shelter for the main army, which was moving eastward in sections, an advance group under hard-fisted Garcia López de Cárdenas had turned the people of Alcanfor pueblo out of their homes to find whatever refuge they could in neighboring towns. Coronado, who had taken a portion of the troops on a swing through the pueblos northwest of Tiguex, had just moved into the new quarters when Alvarado appeared with his captives. Immeasurably relieved by the thought that the costly expedition still might succeed, the general told Padilla, aflame with visions of the Seven Cities, and Alvarado to get the truth from Bigotes however they could. The inquisitors took him into a snowy field and set a war dog on him. Partly it was bluff; the victim was scarred but not disabled. Cacique, too, was attacked by a dog but less severely because of his age. Throughout the ordeal, which created deep resentment along the Rio Grande, both men persistently denied all knowledge of gold.

No dogs were set on the Turk. Though he, along with Ysopete, was also kept in chains so that he would be on hand when needed in the spring, his veracity was not questioned. For if the Turk was not believed, the expedition lost its meaning.

Until spring did arrive, survival was the goal. At first the Spaniards paid for the blankets, warm clothing, and food they requisitioned. Later, when the Indians, who had little surplus, held back, foraging parties roamed far and wide, taking what they desired without recompense, including in at least one case, a Puebloan’s wife.

Sensing correctly that the horses were the Spaniards’ main strength, the Indians struck at one part of the herd, killing two dozen or so animals and stampeding many others. Such attacks could portend disaster. With Coronado’s blessing, Cárdenas stormed Arenal, the center of resistance. After breaching the walls with battering rams, the Europeans lighted smudge fires around the houses. As the gasping Indians fled into the open, making signs of peace, mounted horsemen struck down many. Others were tied to stakes and burned alive—a scene the Turk, Ysopete, and Bigotes were forced to watch so that they could tell the people of their villages what happened to rebels.

The episode occurred in December 1540. Shortly afterwards, the main part of the army appeared, worn out by forced marches through heavy snowstorms, but excited by rumors of gold, for the Turk, who by then knew more about the lusts of the invaders than they knew about him, was elaborating on his tales. With little to talk about but warm weather and wealth, the force lost its hold on reality and, like De Soto’s, disintegrated into a kind of insensate organism responding only to the dynamics of survival. When a new center of resistance developed at a pueblo called Moho, the Spaniards burned the town after a long siege, killed many of the men who tried to flee, and made captives (as the _requerimiento_ threatened) of more than a hundred women and children.

Some ambiguity surrounds Coronado’s part in these and other suppressions of “revolt.” Though he was the army’s commanding general, he apparently was never in the field during the moments of greatest carnage. He later testified he never authorized the burning of settlements or the use of dogs in battle. He personally took old Cacique back to Cicuyé and handed him over to his people, promising to release Bigotes as well when the army went through on its way to golden Quivira.

There was a practical side to the generosity, of course. He did not want a hostile fort astride his back trail when he made his final advance. Emphasize _final_. He badly needed a triumph to save himself from bankruptcy and to make the king’s _audiencia_ understand that what seemed atrocities had been necessary steps on the way to treasure for the empire.