American history. Outnumbered nearly ten to one, lost in a howling mob
of savages who fought with the frenzy of despair, gashed with raw-edged
knives, dazed with crushing clubs, pierced with bristling arrows, spent
and faint and bleeding, Zaldivar and his hero-handful fought their way
inch by inch, step by step, clubbing their heavy guns, hewing with their
short swords, parrying deadly blows, pulling the barbed arrows from
their quivering flesh. On, on, on they pressed, shouting the gallant
war-cry of Santiago, driving the stubborn foe before them by still more
stubborn valor, until at last the Indians, fully convinced that these
were no human foes, fled to the refuge of their fort-like houses, and
there was room for the reeling Spaniards to draw breath. Then thrice
again the summons to surrender was duly read before the strange
tenements, each near a thousand feet long, and looking like a flight of
gigantic steps carved from one rock. Zaldivar even now wished to spare
unnecessary bloodshed, and demanded only that the assassins of his
brother and countrymen should be given up for punishment. All others who
should surrender and become subjects of "Our Lord the King" should be
well treated. But the dogged Indians, like wounded wolves in their den,
stuck in their barricaded houses, and refused all terms of peace.
The rock was captured, but the town remained. A pueblo is a fortress in
itself; and now Zaldivar had to storm Acoma house by house, room by
room. The little _pedrero_ was dragged in front of the first row of
houses, and soon began to deliver its slow fire. As the adobe walls
crumbled under the steady battering of the stone cannon-balls, they only
formed great barricades of clay, which even our modern artillery would
not pierce; and each had to be carried separately at the point of the
sword. Some of the fallen houses caught fire from their own
_fogones_;[14] and soon a stifling smoke hung over the town, from which
issued the shrieks of women and babes and the defiant yells of the
warriors. The humane Zaldivar made every effort to save the women and
children, at great risk of self; but numbers perished beneath the
falling walls of their own houses.
[Illustration: RUINS OF CHURCH AT PECOS.
_See page 161._]
This fearful storming lasted until noon of January 24. Now and then
bands of warriors made sorties, and tried to cut their way through the
Spanish line. Many sprang in desperation over the cliff, and were dashed
to pieces at its foot; and two Indians who made that incredible leap
survived it as miraculously as had the four Spaniards in the earlier
massacre, and made their escape.
At last, at noon of the third day, the old men came forth to sue for
mercy, which was at once granted. The moment they surrendered, their
rebellion was forgotten and their treachery forgiven. There was no need
of further punishment. The ringleaders in the murder of Zaldivar's
brother were all dead, and so were nearly all the Navajo allies. It was
the most bloody struggle New Mexico ever saw. In this three days' fight
the Indians lost five hundred slain and many wounded; and of the
surviving Spaniards not one but bore to his grave many a ghastly scar as
mementos of Acoma. The town was so nearly destroyed that it had all to
be rebuilt; and the infinite labor with which the patient people had
brought up that cliff on their backs all the stones and timber and clay
to build a many-storied town for nearly a thousand souls was all to be
repeated. Their crops, too, and all other supplies, stored in dark
little rooms of the terraced houses, had been destroyed, and they were
in sore want. Truly a bitter punishment had been sent them by "those
above" for their treachery to Juan de Zaldivar.
When his men had sufficiently recovered from their wounds Vicente de
Zaldivar, the leader of probably the most wonderful capture in history,
marched victorious back to San Gabriel de los Espanoles, taking with him
eighty young Acoma girls, whom he sent to be educated by the nuns in Old
Mexico. What a shout must have gone up from the gray walls of the little
colony when its anxious watchers saw at last the wan and unexpected
tatters of its little army pricking slowly homeward across the snows on
jaded steeds!
The rest of the Pueblos, who had been lying demure as cats, with claws
sheathed, but every lithe muscle ready to spring, were fairly paralyzed
with awe. They had looked to see the Spaniards defeated, if not crushed,
at Acoma; and then a swift rising of all the tribes would have made
short work of the remaining invaders. But now the impossible had
happened! Ah'ko, the proud sky-city of the Queres; Ah'ko, the cliff-girt
and impregnable,--had fallen before the pale strangers! Its brave
warriors had come to naught, its strong houses were a chaos of smoking
ruins, its wealth was gone, its people nearly wiped from off the earth!
What use to struggle against "such men of power,"--these strange
wizards who must be precious to "those above," else they never could
have such superhuman prowess? The strung sinews relaxed, and the great
cat began to purr as though she had never dreamt of mousing. There was
no more thought of a rebellion against the Spaniards; and the Indians
even went out of their way to court the favor of these awesome
strangers. They brought Onate the news of the fall of Acoma several days
before Zaldivar and his heroes got back to the little colony, and even
were mean enough to deliver to him two Queres refugees from that dread
field who had sought shelter among them. Thenceforth Governor Onate had
no more trouble with the Pueblos.
But Acoma itself seemed to take the lesson to heart less than any of
them. Too crushed and broken to think of further war with its invincible
foes, it still remained bitterly hostile to the Spaniards for full
thirty years, until it was again conquered by a heroism as splendid as
Zaldivar's, though in a far different way.
In 1629 Fray Juan Ramirez, "the Apostle of Acoma," left Santa Fe alone
to found a mission in that lofty home of fierce barbarians. An escort of
soldiers was offered him, but he declined it, and started unaccompanied
and on foot, with no other weapon than his crucifix. Tramping his
footsore and dangerous way, he came after many days to the foot of the
great "island" of rock, and began the ascent. As soon as the savages saw
a stranger of the hated people, they rallied to the brink of the cliff
and poured down a great flight of arrows, some of which pierced his
robes. Just then a little girl of Acoma, who was standing on the edge of
the cliff, grew frightened at the wild actions of her people, and losing
her balance tumbled over the precipice. By a strange providence she fell
but a few yards, and landed on a sandy ledge near the Fray, but out of
sight of her people, who presumed that she had fallen the whole height
of the cliff. Fray Juan climbed to her, and carried her unhurt to the
top of the rock; and seeing this apparent miracle, the savages were
disarmed, and received him as a good wizard. The good man dwelt alone
there in Acoma for more than twenty years, loved by the natives as a
father, and teaching his swarthy converts so successfully that in time
many knew their catechism, and could read and write in Spanish. Besides,
under his direction they built a large church with enormous labor. When
he died, in 1664, the Acomas from being the fiercest Indians had become
the gentlest in New Mexico, and were among the furthest advanced in
civilization. But a few years after his death came the uprising of all
the Pueblos; and in the long and disastrous wars which followed the
church was destroyed, and the fruits of the brave Fray's work largely
disappeared. In that rebellion Fray Lucas Maldonado, who was then the
missionary to Acoma, was butchered by his flock on the 10th or 11th of
August, 1680. In November, 1692, Acoma voluntarily surrendered to the
reconqueror of New Mexico, Diego de Vargas. Within a few years, however,
it rebelled again; and in August, 1696, Vargas marched against it, but
was unable to storm the rock. But by degrees the Pueblos grew to lasting
peace with the humane conquerors, and to merit the kindness which was
steadily proffered them. The mission at Acoma was re-established about
the year 1700; and there stands to-day a huge church which is one of the
most interesting in the world, by reason of the infinite labor and
patience which built it. The last attempt at a Pueblo uprising was in
1728; but Acoma was not implicated in it at all.
The strange stone stairway by which Fray Juan Ramirez climbed first to
his dangerous parish in the teeth of a storm of arrows, is used by the
people of Acoma to this day, and is still called by them _el camino del
padre_ (the path of the Father).
FOOTNOTES:
[14] Fireplaces.
V.
THE SOLDIER POET.
But now to go back a little. The young officer who made that superb leap
across the chasm at Acoma, pushed back the bridge-log, and so saved the
lives of his comrades, and indirectly of all the Spanish in New Mexico,
was Captain Gaspar Perez de Villagran.[15] He was highly educated, being
a graduate of a Spanish university; young, ambitious, fearless, and
athletic; a hero among the heroes of the New World, and a chronicler to
whom we are greatly indebted. The six extant copies of the fat little
parchment-bound book of his historical poem, in thirty-four heroic
cantos, are each worth many times their weight in gold. It is a great
pity that we could not have had a Villagran for each of the campaigns of
the pioneers of America, to tell us more of the details of those
superhuman dangers and hardships,--for most of the chroniclers of that
day treat such episodes as briefly as we would a trip from New York to
Brooklyn.
The leaping of the chasm was not Captain Villagran's only connection
with the bloody doings at Acoma in the winter of 1598-99. He came very
near being a victim of the first massacre, in which Juan de Zaldivar and
his men perished, and escaped that fate only to suffer hardships as
fearful as death.
In the fall of 1598 four soldiers deserted Onate's little army at San
Gabriel; and the governor sent Villagran, with three or four soldiers,
to arrest them. It is hard to say what a sheriff nowadays would think if
called upon to follow four desperadoes nearly a thousand miles across
such a desert, and with a _posse_ so small. But Captain Villagran kept
the trail of the deserters; and after a pursuit of at least nine hundred
miles, overtook them in southern Chihuahua, Mexico. The deserters made a
fierce resistance. Two were killed by the officers, and two escaped.
Villagran left his little _posse_ there, and retraced his dangerous nine
hundred miles alone. Arriving at the pueblo of Puaray, on the west bank
of the Rio Grande, opposite Bernalillo, he learned that his commander
Onate had just marched west, on the perilous trip to Moqui, of which you
have already heard. Villagran at once turned westward, and started alone
to follow and overtake his countrymen. The trail was easily followed,
for the Spaniards had the only horses within what is now the United
States; but the lonely follower of it was beset with continual danger
and hardship. He came in sight of Acoma just too late to witness the
massacre of Juan de Zaldivar and the fearful fall of the five Spaniards.
The survivors had already left the fatal spot; and when the natives saw
a solitary Spaniard approaching, they descended from their rock citadel
to surround and slay him. Villagran had no firearms, nothing but his
sword, dagger, and shield. Although he knew nothing of the dreadful
events which had just occurred, he became suspicious of the manner in
which the savages were hemming him in; and though his horse was gaunt
from its long journey, he spurred it to a gallant effort, and fought his
way through the closing circle of Indians. He kept up his flight until
well into the night, making a long circuit to avoid coming too near the
town, and at last got down exhausted from his exhausted horse, and laid
himself on the bare earth to rest. When he awoke it was snowing hard,
and he was half buried under the cold, white blanket. Remounting, he
pushed on in the darkness, to get as far as possible from Acoma ere
daylight should betray him. Suddenly horse and rider fell into a deep
pit, which the Indians had dug for a trap and covered with brush and
earth. The fall killed the poor horse, and Villagran himself was badly
hurt and stunned. At last, however, he managed to crawl out of the pit,
to the great joy of his faithful dog, who sat whining and shivering upon
the edge. The soldier-poet speaks most touchingly of this dumb companion
of his long and perilous journey, and evidently loved it with the
affection which only a brave man can give and a faithful dog merit.
Starting again on foot, Villagran soon lost his way in that trackless
wilderness. For four days and four nights he wandered without a morsel
of food or a drop of water,--for the snow had already disappeared. Many
a man has fasted longer under equal hardships; but only those who have
tasted the thirst of the arid lands can form the remotest conception of
the meaning of ninety-six hours without water. Two days of that thirst
is often fatal to strong men; and that Villagran endured four was little
short of miraculous. At last, fairly dying of thirst, with dry, swollen
tongue, hard and rough as a file, projecting far beyond his teeth, he
was reduced to the sad necessity of slaying his faithful dog, which he
did with tears of manly remorse. Calling the poor brute to him, he
dispatched it with his sword, and greedily drank the warm blood. This
gave him strength to stagger on a little farther; and just as he was
sinking to the sand to die, he spied a little hollow in a large rock
ahead. Crawling feebly to it, he found to his joy that a little
snow-water remained in the cavity. Scattered about, were a few grains of
corn, which seemed a godsend; and he devoured them ravenously.
He had now given up all hope of overtaking his commander, and decided to
turn back and try to walk that grim two hundred miles to San Gabriel.
But he was too far gone for the body longer to obey the heroic soul, and
would have perished miserably by the little rock tank but for a strange
chance.
As he lay there, faint and helpless, he suddenly heard voices
approaching. He concluded that the Indians had trailed him, and gave
himself up for lost, for he was too weak to fight. But at last his ear
caught the accent of Spain; and though it was spoken by hoarse, rough
soldiers, you may be sure he thought it the sweetest sound in all the
world. It chanced that the night before, some of the horses of Onate's
camp had strayed away, and a small squad of soldiers was sent out to
catch them. In following the trail of the runaways, they came in sight
of Captain Villagran. Luckily they saw him, for he could no longer shout
nor run after them. Tenderly they lifted up the wounded officer and bore
him back to camp; and there, under the gentle nursing of bearded men, he
slowly recovered strength, and in time became again the daring athlete
of other days. He accompanied Onate on that long, desert march; and a
few months later was at the storming of Acoma, and performed the
astounding feat which ranks as one of the remarkable individual heroisms
of the New World.
FOOTNOTES:
[15] Pronounced Veel-yah-grahn.
VI.
THE PIONEER MISSIONARIES.
To pretend to tell the story of the Spanish pioneering of the Americas
without special attention to the missionary pioneers, would be very poor
justice and very poor history. In this, even more than in other
qualities, the conquest was unique. The Spaniard not only found and
conquered, but converted. His religious earnestness was not a whit
behind his bravery. As has been true of all nations that have entered
new lands,--and as we ourselves later entered this,--his first step had
to be to subdue the savages who opposed him. But as soon as he had
whipped these fierce grown-children, he began to treat them with a great
and noble mercy,--a mercy none too common even now, and in that cruel
time of the whole world almost unheard of. He never robbed the brown
first Americans of their homes, nor drove them on and on before him; on
the contrary, he protected and secured to them by special laws the
undisturbed possession of their lands for all time. It is due to the
generous and manly laws made by Spain three hundred years ago, that our
most interesting and advanced Indians, the Pueblos, enjoy to-day full
security in their lands; while nearly all others (who never came fully
under Spanish dominion) have been time after time ousted from lands our
government had solemnly given to them.
That was the beauty of an Indian policy which was ruled, not by
politics, but by the unvarying principle of humanity. The Indian was
first required to be obedient to his new government. He could not learn
obedience in everything all at once; but he must at least refrain from
butchering his new neighbors. As soon as he learned that lesson, he was
insured protection in his rights of home and family and property. Then,
as rapidly as such a vast work could be done by an army of missionaries
who devoted their lives to the dangerous task, he was educated to
citizenship and Christianity. It is almost impossible for us, in these
quiet days, to comprehend what it was to convert a savage half-world. In
our part of North America there have never been such hopeless tribes as
the Spaniards met in Mexico and other southern lands. Never did any
other people anywhere complete such a stupendous missionary work. To
begin to understand the difficulties of that conversion, we must look
into an appalling page of history.
Most Indians and savage peoples have religions as unlike ours as are
their social organizations. There are few tribes that dream of one
Supreme Being. Most of them worship many gods,--"gods" whose attributes
are very like those of the worshipper; "gods" as ignorant and cruel and
treacherous as he. It is a ghastly thing to study these religions, and
to see what dark and revolting qualities ignorance can deify. The
merciless gods of India, who are supposed to delight in the crushing of
thousands under the wheels of Juggernaut, and in the sacrificing of
babes to the Ganges, and in the burning alive of girl-widows, are fair
examples of what the benighted can believe; and the horrors of India
were fully paralleled in America. The religions of our North American
Indians had many astounding and dreadful features; but they were mild
and civilized compared with the hideous rites of Mexico and the southern
lands. To understand something of what the Spanish missionaries had to
combat throughout America, aside from the common danger, let us glance
at the condition of affairs in Mexico at their coming.
The Nahuatl, or Aztecs, and similar Indian tribes of ancient Mexico, had
the general pagan creed of all American Indians, with added horrors of
their own. They were in constant blind dread of their innumerable savage
gods,--for to them everything they could not see and understand, and
nearly everything they could, was a divinity. But they could not
conceive of any such divinity as one they could love; it was always
something to be afraid of, and mortally afraid of. Their whole attitude
of life was one of dodging the cruel blows of an unseen hand; of
placating some fierce god who could not love, but might be bribed not to
destroy. They could not conceive a real creation, nor that _anything_
could be without father and mother: stones and stars and winds and gods
had to be born the same as men. Their "heaven," if they could have
understood such a word, was crowded with gods, each as individual and
personal as we, with greater powers than we, but with much the same
weaknesses and passions and sins. In fact, they had invented and
arranged gods by their own savage standards, giving them the powers they
themselves most desired, but unable to attribute virtues they could not
understand. So, too, in judging what would please these gods, they went
by what would please themselves. To have bloody vengeance on their
enemies; to rob and slay, or be paid tribute for not robbing and
slaying; to be richly dressed and well fed,--these, and other like
things which seemed to them the highest personal ambitions, they thought
must be likewise pleasing to "those above." So they spent most of their
time and anxiety in buying off these strange gods, who were even more
dreaded than savage neighbors.
Their ideas of a god were graphically expressed in the great stone idols
of which Mexico was once full, some of which are still preserved in the
museums. They are often of heroic size, and are carved from the hardest
stone with great painstaking, but their faces and figures are
indescribably dreadful. Such an idol as that of the grim Huitzilopochtli
was as horrible a thing as human ingenuity ever invented, and the same
grotesque hideousness runs through all the long list of Mexican idols.
These idols were attended with the most servile care, and dressed in the
richest ornaments known to Indian wealth. Great strings of
turquoise,--the most precious "gem" of the American aborigines,--and
really precious mantles of the brilliant feathers of tropic birds, and
gorgeous shells were hung lavishly upon those great stone nightmares.
Thousands of men devoted their lives to the tending of the dumb deities,
and humbled and tortured themselves unspeakably to please them.
But gifts and care were not enough. Treachery to his friends was still
to be feared from such a god. He must still further be bought off;
everything that to an Indian seemed valuable was proffered to the
Indian's god, to keep him in good humor. And since human life was the
most precious thing an Indian could understand, it became his most
important and finally his most frequent offering. To the Indian it
seemed no crime to take a life to please a god. He had no idea of
retribution after death, and he came to look upon human sacrifice as a
legitimate, moral, and even divine institution. In time, such sacrifices
became of almost daily occurrence at each of the numberless temples. It
was the most valued form of worship; so great was its importance that
the officials or priests had to go through a more onerous training than
does any minister of a Christian faith. They could reach their position
only by pledging and keeping up unceasing and awful self-deprivation and
self-mutilation.
Human lives were offered not only to one or two principal idols of each
community, but each town had also many minor fetiches to which such
sacrifices were made on stated occasions. So fixed was the custom of
sacrifice, and so proper was it deemed, that when Cortez came to
Cempohual the natives could think of no other way to welcome him with
sufficient honor, and in perfect cordiality proposed to offer up human
sacrifices to him. It is hardly necessary to add that Cortez sternly
declined this pledge of hospitality.
These rites were mostly performed on the teocallis, or sacrificial
mounds, of which there were one or more in every Indian town. These were
huge artificial mounds of earth, built in the shape of truncated
pyramids, and faced all over with stone. They were from fifty to two
hundred feet high, and sometimes many hundreds of feet square at the
base. Upon the flat top of the pyramid stood a small tower,--the dingy
chapel which enclosed the idol. The grotesque face of the stone deity
looked down upon a cylindrical stone which had a bowl-like cavity in the
top,--the altar, or sacrificial stone. This was generally carved also,
and sometimes with remarkable skill and detail. The famous so-called
"Aztec Calendar Stone" in the National Museum of Mexico, which once gave
rise to so many wild speculations, is merely one of these sacrificial
altars, dating from before Columbus. It is a wonderful piece of Indian
stone-carving.