Part 7

The eastern advance began April 23, 1541. (Fifteen days later De Soto, heading west, sighted the Mississippi.) Bedlam marked much of the Spaniards’ travel, especially during the daily making and breaking of camp. There were about 300 white soldiers, other hundreds of Mexican Indian allies, some with women and children, a herd of a thousand horses, 500 beef cattle, and 5,000 sheep—or so says Castañeda, possibly with exaggeration. The people of Cicuyé, seeing the mass advancing under a shroud of dust and remembering the fate of Arenal and Moho, became friendly again. They received Bigotes with rejoicing and heaped supplies on his one-time captors—anything to get the invaders moving on.

For many miles the Turk led the army east toward the Canadian River, along the path he had shown Alvarado. They saw so many buffalo—charging bulls killed a few horses—that Coronado would not venture guessing at the numbers. They fell in with a meticulously described, to the joy of future anthropologists, band of nomad Querechos, perhaps forerunners of the Apaches. As spring waned, they found themselves in the Texas Panhandle, atop the featureless immensity of the Llano Estacado, the Staked Plains.

At that point, the Turk, who the previous fall had told Alvarado that Quivira lay northeast, turned southeast. Why? Was he heading toward the lower Mississippi and the kind of civilization he thought the Spanish wanted? Or had he, during the pause in Cicuyé, agreed with the people there to lead the invaders into a trackless part of the plains where they would become lost and, deprived of maize, would starve.

Ysopete, who seems to have developed an acute antipathy for the Turk and who was anxious to reach his home in Kansas, warned Coronado he was being misled. Alvarado voiced suspicions. Coronado, however, clung to his necessary faith in the Turk until they reached a point where the abrupt eastern escarpment of the Staked Plains drops into almost impassable badlands. There at last he put the Turk in irons and turned the piloting over to Ysopete, assisted by some local Teyas Indians.

All this had taken precious time. To speed things along and to make food easier to procure, Coronado ordered the main army to return to Tiguex while he and 30 picked riders, 6 foot soldiers, Juan de Padilla, and a few mule packers scouted out Quivira.[4]

Traveling light and sparing their mounts, Coronado’s group rode northeast for a month. They reached the River of Quivira (now the Arkansas) not far below present-day Dodge City, Kansas, and followed it, still northeast, to its Great Bend, where they left it. A little farther on they found the first Quivira (Wichita) village, a cluster of domed huts built of stout frameworks of logs overlaid with grass, so that they looked like haystacks. The surrounding land, rolling and fertile, produced fine corn, pumpkins, and tobacco. But no gold.

There were another 24 or so similar villages in the kingdom of Quivira. The Spaniards spent nearly a month riding disconsolately among them, gradually absorbing the truth that riches of the kind they wanted lay neither here nor, as far as they could learn, further east. (During the same period., De Soto was arriving at the same opinion while wandering through parts of Arkansas.) Angry questions were inevitable. Why had the Turk sought to mislead them both with his tales and his guidance? Under pressure he said the people of Cicuyé had put him up to it on the supposition he could lure the invaders to their doom. Perhaps they had. Or perhaps El Turco was simply trying, in his extremity, to shift blame.

The last straw came when Ysopete, El Turco’s enemy, said the Pawnee was trying to stir up the Quivirans against the Spaniards. Acting on Coronado’s orders, a party of executioners strangled and buried him, secretly at night lest the Quivirans be aroused.

There were no repercussions. Guided by several young Quivirans, the scouts returned by a direct route to the Rio Grande Valley, arriving in mid-September. In Coronado’s mind, the absence of treasure was conclusive, but among those who had not gone to Quivira were many who believed that if the scouts had continued eastward, they would have found the Seven Cities. Coronado agreed half-heartedly to make another attempt the following spring, but fate intervened. During a horse race with a friend, his saddle girth broke and he was thrown under the hooves of his opponent’s mount. Though his body gradually recovered, his spirits did not. After another miserable winter in Alcanfor, he ordered the army to start home. He was carried much of the way in a litter swung between two mules hitched in tandem.

By dying, De Soto escaped being tried for failure. Not Coronado. He was investigated for derelictions in connection with an Indian rebellion that swept his province immediately after his departure, for mistreating the Indians of Tiguex, and for failing to press on beyond Quivira. Every enemy he had and a pack of opportunists and publicity hunters in quest of an audience took the stand against him, often blurting out scandalous rumors that had nothing to do with the case. Ill, his mind cloudy, he testified poorly in his own defense. But he had supporters, too, and in the end, largely through the help of Viceroy Mendoza, he was cleared of all legal charges. Though he lost the governorship of Nueva Galicia and some of his property there, he retained his seat on Mexico City’s council until his health, poor since his return, broke completely. He died on September 22, 1554, aged 44.

There is a footnote. A few Mexican Indians stayed in Háwikuh and Cicuyé and a survivor or two were found in those towns when Spanish exploration of the Pueblo country resumed four decades later. Some religious people also stayed. One, old Fray Luís de Ubeda, the builder of crosses, settled at Cicuyé, hoping to spread Christianity by baptizing children. His fate is unknown.

Fray Juan de Padilla’s tale is more dramatic. Obsessed with saving Indian souls by bringing them to the Church and dreaming still of the Seven Cities, he accompanied the young Quiviran guides back to their homes from the Rio Grande. Helping him drive along some pack mules, a horse, and a flock of sheep were two Indian _donados_ of Mexico named Lucas and Sebastián, Andrés do Campo, a Portuguese, a black “interpreter,” and a handful of servants. (Indians were not allowed to become full-fledged friars, but if they were “donated” to the Church by their parents, they could, as _donados_, serve as assistants.)

The missionary adventure was short-lived. While attempting to press on east of Quivira, the group was attacked by unidentified assailants. Padilla died, bristling with arrows. Do Campo, the two _donados_, and perhaps some others escaped. Separated, the _donados_ and do Campo traveled along different routes from tribe to tribe for at least four years until at last they reached Pánuco, Mexico—trips as astonishing but far less famed than the odyssey of Cabeza de Vaca, whose cross-continental traverse had put all these ill-fated land expeditions into motion. And so, except for the salt-water adventures of Juan Rodríguez Cabrillo, the epics had reached full circle.

The Seafarers

History has preserved only dim outlines of the remarkable career of Juan Rodríguez Cabrillo, who died in 1543 while attempting to complete the first exploration of California’s coastline. Though he is generally supposed to have been Portuguese, the evidence is too scanty to be sure.[5] There is no firm agreement about the cause or place of his death. He is variously reported to have used two, three, and even four vessels on his great exploration. Even his name has invited speculation. It appears on the few surviving documents he signed in the abbreviated form _Juan Rodz_. (The Portuguese spelling would normally end in “s,” the Spanish in “z.”) What then of _Cabrillo_, which means “little goat”? Was it an affectionate nickname that he liked and used informally to distinguish himself from numerous other Juan Rodríguezes, a name as common in Hispanic countries as John Smith is in English-speaking regions? In any event he should be known formally as Juan Rodríguez. The name Cabrillo is, however, so firmly fixed in California history that it will be used in this account.

Whatever his name and origin, Juan Rodríguez Cabrillo learned seafaring in his youth. He arrived in Cuba in the second decade of the 1500s, perhaps as a sailor or, because of his age, as a page. Yet he apparently joined the Narváez expedition that was dispatched from Cuba to arrest Cortés as a crossbowman. Like most of his companions, he deserted Narváez and joined Cortés at Vera Cruz and afterwards survived the grisly _noche triste_ when the Aztecs drove the Spaniards from their capital at Tenochtitlán. Immediately thereafter his chance came to display his nautical skills.

Cortés knew that if he were to recapture lake-bound Tenochtitlán, he would have to control the causeways that linked the city to the mainland. That meant building enough small brigantines to overpower the Aztec war canoes that had harried the retreating Spaniards so mercilessly during the _noche triste_. According to the soldier-historian Bernal Díaz del Castillo, Cortés put Cabrillo in charge of four “men of the sea” who understood how to make pine tar for caulking ships. But was that all the younger warrior did? Seamen were needed in all phases of the operation, beginning with the prefabrication of thirteen brigantines 50 miles from the capital and then transporting the pieces on the backs of at least 8,000 porters to the shores of the lake, where they were reassembled.

Each brigantine was manned by a dozen oarsmen, who also handled the sails. Each carried several crossbowmen and arquebus marksmen. The little fleet was important enough that Cortés took charge in person. A fortuitous wind enabled the brigantines to hoist sails and smash with devastating effect into a massed gathering of Aztec canoes. Afterwards they fought a dozen fierce skirmishes while protecting the footmen on the causeway—opportunity enough for a good sailor and fighter to catch the general’s eye, if indeed Cabrillo was in the fleet, as he well may have been.

Tenochtitlán regained, the actual conquest of Mexico began. Small bands of Spaniards, reinforced by numerous Indian allies, radiated out in all directions. It is known that Cabrillo participated as an officer of crossbowmen in the conquest of Oaxaca. Later he joined red-bearded Pedro de Alvarado, cousin of Coronado’s officer, Hernando de Alvarado, in seizing Guatemala and El Salvador. During those long, sanguinary campaigns Cabrillo performed well enough that he was rewarded with _encomiendas_ in both Guatemala and Honduras.

An _encomienda_ was a grant of land embracing one or more Indian villages. In exchange for protecting the village and teaching the inhabitants to become Christian subjects of the king, the _encomendero_ was entitled to exact taxes and labor from them. Most grant holders ignored duties while concentrating on the privileges. What kind of master Cabrillo was does not appear. Anyway, for the next 15 years his Indian laborers grew food for slaves he had put to work in placer mines on his lands and in the shipyards he supervised on Guatemala’s Pacific coast. He traded profitably with Peru and meanwhile enriched his personal life by taking an Indian woman as his consort. With her he fathered several children. Later he brought a Spanish wife—Beatriz Sánchez de Ortega—into his extensive and, for the time and place, luxurious household.

Successful shipbuilding helped keep the excitement of the conquistadors high, for if the world was as small as generally believed, China, the islands of Indonesia, and the Philippines, discovered by Magellan in 1521, could not be far away. There might be other islands as well, ruled by potentates as rich as Moctezuma or inhabited by gorgeous black Amazons who allowed men to visit them only on certain occasions and afterwards slew them. There was that mythical “terrestrial paradise” called California in a popular romance of the time, _Las Sergas de Esplandián_. According to the author, seductive California was ruled by dazzling queen Calafia, whose female warriors wielded swords of gold, there being no other metal in the land, and used man-eating griffins as beasts of burden. What a spot to find!

The ships charged with searching for these places were built of materials hauled overland (except for timber) from the Atlantic to the Pacific by Indian bearers. The vessels were small, ill-designed, cranky, and often did not have decks. Nevertheless, ships sent out into the unknown by Cortés during the early 1530s discovered a strip of coast the sailors believed was part of an island. They were the first, probably, to refer to it as California, perhaps in derision since the desolate area was so totally different from the paradise described in the romance. The notion of nearby Gardens of Eden persisted, however, and interest soared again when Cabeza de Vaca’s party reached Mexico in 1536 with tales of great cities in the north.

Cortés, who considered himself the legitimate _adelantado_ of the north, tried to cut in on Mendoza’s plans to exploit the Vaca discoveries. Rebuffed, he defied the Viceroy by dispatching three ships under a kinsman, Francisco de Ulloa—one of the vessels soon foundered—to search for a sea opening to the lands of Cíbola. Finding himself locked in a gulf, Ulloa retreated along the eastern edge of the 800-mile-long peninsula that we call Baja California, rounded its tip and continued north to within 130 miles or so of the present U.S.-Mexico border. No inlets. His ships battered by adverse winds and his men wracked by scurvy, he returned to Mexico, only to be murdered, it is said, by one of his sailors.

The only man remaining who could have saved Cortés’s dimming star was his old captain, Pedro de Alvarado, then governor of Guatemala. Dreaming of still more wealth in the sea, Alvarado, too, had built a pair of shipyards on the Pacific coast and had put Juan Rodríguez Cabrillo in charge of creating vessels out of materials dragged overland by Indians from the Atlantic. In 1538 Alvarado went to Spain and returned with 300 volunteers and a license to conquer any islands he found in the South Seas. By then he commanded 13 vessels, several of which had been built by Cabrillo. In the fleet were three galleons of 200 tons each, one of which, the _San Salvador_ was owned and piloted by Cabrillo; seven ships of 100 tons, and three lesser brigantines. If Alvarado had thrown in with Cortés ... but prudence dictated that he consult first with Mendoza, who had already invested some money in the building of the armada. So he took the fleet north to the port of Colima, due west of Mexico City and left it at anchor there, under Cabrillo’s watchful eye, while he went inland to dicker with the Viceroy.

In the end Mendoza and Alvarado agreed to share equally in the expenses and profits of a double venture: they would send some ships west to the Philippines and some north to Cíbola and then on to a strait called Anian, which supposedly sliced through the upper latitudes of the continent. The arrangements, which ignored Cortés’s claims, sent the aging conquistador hurrying to Spain in 1540 in search of justice, as he defined justice. He never returned.

Alvarado had no opportunity to exploit the newly opened field. When an Indian revolt broke out in provinces of Jalisco and Michacán, the viceroy called on Alvarado to bring in his volunteers as reinforcements. During an engagement in the summer of 1541, a horse lost its footing on a steep hillside, rolled down and crushed Alvarado to death.

Onerous problems followed. Alvarado’s estate had to be put in order; ships had to be refitted; the chaos of an earthquake at Santiago, Guatemala, headquarters of Cabrillo’s holdings, had to be confronted. In due time Mendoza acquired control of the fleet, including the use of Cabrillo’s _San Salvador_, and in 1542 launched the major explorations previously agreed on. Ruy Lopéz de Villalobos took ships to the Philippines. On June 27 of that same year Cabrillo headed north with three vessels: _San Salvador_, which he captained; _Victoria_, commanded by pilot Bartolomé Ferrer (a pilot ranked just below a captain and was far more than a mere guide); and _San Miguel_, a small brigantine used as a launch and service vessel. It was commanded by Antonio Correa, an experienced shipmaster. More than 200 persons were crowded aboard the three vessels.[6]

Because both Ulloa and Alarcón had reported that the Sea of Cortés was a gulf, Cabrillo made no effort to follow the mainland north, but led his ships directly toward the tip of the peninsula, calling it California without comment, as though the name was already in current use. For nearly three months they sailed along Baja’s outer coast, bordered much of the way by “high, naked, and rugged mountains.” Because they were looking for a river entrance to the interior and for a strait leading to the Atlantic, they sailed as close to land as they dared, constantly tacking in order to defeat the contrary winds and the Pacific’s erratic currents.

About August 20 they passed the most northerly point (Punta del Engaño) reached by Ulloa. A little farther on, where the land was flat, they beached the vessels to make some necessary repairs and, while exploring the neighborhood, found a camp of Indian fishermen. The native leaders, their bodies decorated with slashes of white paint, came on board, looked over the sailors and soldiers and indicated “they had seen other men like them who had beards and had brought dogs, _ballestas_ [crossbows] and swords.” Since there was no mention of horses, the strangers probably had come from ships. Ulloa’s men of 1539? Hernando de Alarcón’s of 1540? Or a later party, for there had been talk of Alarcón’s returning for another venture inland. Mystified, Cabrillo entrusted the Indians with a letter for the bearded ones.

They relaunched the ships and another month dragged by—crosswinds, headwinds, calms. Cabrillo took constant sightings of sun and stars with his massive astrolabe, no small task for he had to stand with his back braced against a mast for steadiness on the heaving deck while he called out the readings that were to be recorded in the log. Speed was computed by throwing a wooden float over the stern and counting the marks flashing by as the line holding it unwound from its reel. Compasses were used, but magnetic declinations were not well understood. All of Cabrillo’s longitudes and latitudes were wide of the mark, but the fault was not entirely his or his instruments. He began his reckonings at a point inaccurately observed by others. Even the precise location of Mexico City was unknown in 1542.

_San Salvador_, Cabrillo’s Flagship

Cabrillo himself built the ship he sailed up the California coast. It was constructed between 1536 and 1540 at Iztapa on the west coast of Guatemala. This region was something of a shipbuilding center, with a reputation for better quality than the yards of Seville, Spain. Much of the labor was furnished by Indians and black slaves, whole villages of whom were conscripted to portage supplies, raise food, cut lumber, trim timbers, and make pitch, rope, and charcoal.

_San Salvador_ was a full-rigged galleon, with an approximate length of 100 feet, a beam of 25 feet, and a draft of 10 feet. The crew numbered about 60: 4 officers, 25 to 30 seamen, and 2 or 3 apprentices, and two dozen or so slaves, blacks and Indians. On the voyage to California, _San Salvador_ also carried about 25 soldiers and at least one priest. The ship was armed with several cannon.

Ship’s fare was wine, hard bread, beans, salt meat, fish, and anything fresh picked up along the way, all washed down by mugs of wine. Officers, who probably brought along food of their own and servants to prepare it, ate better. Slaves lived off rations of soup and bread and scraps left by others.

On September 28, three months after leaving Mexico, the ships crossed the future international border and put into a “very good enclosed port, to which they gave the name San Miguel.” It was our San Diego.

The Indians there were afraid. That evening they wounded, with arrows, three men of a fishing party. Instead of marching forth in retaliation, Cabrillo sailed slowly on into the harbor, caught two boys, gave them presents, and let them go. The kindness worked. The next day three large men partly dressed in furs (the “Summary” says) came to the ship and galloped around to illustrate horsemen killing Indians far inland. Melchior Díaz, fighting Yumans during his crossing of the Colorado in the fall of 1540? Or had word of Coronado’s battles at Háwikuh and on the Rio Grande trickled this far west along the trade trails? In any event, Europeans were no longer a mystery. On three more occasions Cabrillo picked up rumors of Spaniards in the interior.

After easily riding out the first storm of the season in the harbor, the ships sailed on, pausing at Avalon on Santa Catalina Island and later at the island we call San Clemente. Along the way they remarked on the many flat-lying streamers of smoke from Indian villages near San Pedro and, later, Santa Monica Bays (warnings, unrecognizable then, of temperature inversions and smog). Somewhere near modern Oxnard, they spent a few pleasant days with Chumash Indians, admiring their big, conical huts and their marvelous plank canoes. Tantalized by a fresh rumor of Spaniards near a large river (the Colorado?), Cabrillo sent out a letter in care of some Indians “on a chance.” But where the river reached the coast, if it did, he could not learn.