Ines of My Soul (28 page)

Our spring optimism did not last long, for in early September the Indian boy Felipe brought us news that enemy warriors were arriving every day in the valley, and that they were forming an army. Cecilia sent her serving girls to investigate, and they confirmed what Felipe seemed to know by pure clairvoyance, adding that there were some fifteen hundred camped fifteen or twenty leagues from Santiago. Valdivia summoned his most faithful captains, and once again determined to teach the enemy a lesson before they were better organized.

“Don't go, Pedro. I have a bad presentiment,” I pleaded.

“You always have bad presentiments at times like these, Inés,” he replied. I detested that tone he sometimes used, like a father humoring a child. “We are used to fighting against a number a hundred times larger than our own; fifteen hundred savages are laughable.”

“There may be more hiding in other places.”

“With God's favor, we will deal with them; have no worry.”

To me it seemed imprudent to divide our forces, which were already quite thin, but who was I to object to the strategy of an experienced soldier like Valdivia? Every time I tried to dissuade him from a military decision, because common sense demanded it, he flew into a rage and we ended up furious with each other. I did not agree with him on this occasion, as I did not agree later, when he was inflamed with a fever to found cities we could neither populate nor defend. That hardheadedness led to his death. “Women cannot think on a grand scale; they cannot imagine the future; they lack a sense of history; they concern themselves only with domestic and immediate realities,” he told me once, but he had to retract his statement when I recited the list of everything that I and other women had contributed to the mission of conquering and founding.

Pedro divided his forces: fifty soldiers and a hundred Yanaconas under the command of his best captains, Monroy, Villagra, Aguirre, and Quiroga, to protect the town, while he himself would lead a detachment consisting of a little more than sixty soldiers and the remainder of the Indians. They left Santiago at dawn, with trumpets, flying banners, harquebus fire, and enough uproar to give the impression that they were more than their actual number. From the flat
azotea
atop Aguirre's house, which had been converted into an observation post, we watched them ride away. It was a cloudless day and the snow-covered mountains that surrounded the valley seemed immense, and very near. Rodrigo de Quiroga was at my side, trying to veil his uneasiness, which was as great as mine.

“They should not have gone, Don Rodrigo. Santiago is very vulnerable.”

“The gobernador knows what he's doing, Doña Inés,” he replied, not entirely convinced. “It is better to go out to meet the enemy; that way he understands that we do not fear him.”

This young captain was, in my opinion, the best man in our small colony—after Pedro, of course. He was courageous, experienced in war, silent in suffering, loyal, and selfless. He had in addition the rare virtue of inspiring confidence in everyone who knew him. He was building a house on a property near our own, but he had been so busy fighting in the constant skirmishes with the Chilean Indians that his dwelling consisted of a few pillars, two walls, some canvas, and a straw roof. His home was so inhospitable that he spent a lot of his time in ours, since the house of the gobernador, the largest and most comfortable in the town, had become a meeting center. I suppose my determination that no one would want for food and drink contributed to our social success. Rodrigo was the only one of the soldiers who did not keep a harem of concubines and did not chase the other men's Indian girls to get them pregnant. His companion was an Indian named Eulalia, one of Cecilia's serving girls, a beautiful young Quechua who had been born in Atahualpa's palace. She had the same grace and dignity as her mistress, the Inca princess. Eulalia fell in love with Rodrigo the moment he joined the expedition. When he arrived he was as filthy, ill, shaggy, and ragged as the other surviving ghosts of the Los Chunchos jungle, but with just one glance she was attracted to him, even before they cut his hair and bathed him. She could not stop thinking of him. With infinite cleverness and patience she seduced Rodrigo, and then came to me with her woes. I interceded with Cecilia and asked her to allow Eulalia to serve Rodrigo, using the argument that Cecilia had enough servants, while that poor man was skin and bones and might die if he was not cared for. Cecilia was too clever to be deceived by such tales, but she was moved by Eulalia's love. She released her servant, and Eulalia went to live with Quiroga. They had a delicate relationship; he treated her with a fatherly, respectful courtesy unusual among the soldiers and their women, and she attended to his least wish quickly and discreetly. She seemed submissive, but I knew through Catalina that she was passionate and jealous.

Rodrigo de Quiroga and I, up on Aguirre's
azotea
, watched as more than half our forces marched away from Santiago. For some reason, I found myself wondering what Quiroga was like in his intimate moments, whether by any chance he satisfied Eulalia. I knew his body because I had taken care of him when he returned from Los Chunchos, and when he had been wounded in encounters with the Indians. He was slim, but very strong. I had never seen him completely naked, but according to Catalina, “You need to be seeing his
piripicho
, then,
senorayy
. Frisky as a colt.” The women servants, who never missed anything, agreed, assuring me that he was very well endowed; on the other hand, Aguirre, with all his woman chasing . . . well, what did it matter. I recall that my heart gave a little lurch when I remembered what I had heard about Rodrigo, and I blushed so violently that he noticed.

“Is something the matter, Doña Inés?” he asked.

I quickly said good-bye, perturbed, and went downstairs to begin my daily chores, while he went off to his.

Two days later, on the night of September 11, 1541, a date I have never forgotten, Michimalonko's men and their allies attacked Santiago. As was always the case when Pedro was away, I couldn't sleep. It was not unusual for me to be awake all night. After I sent everyone else to bed, I had stayed up late, sewing. In that ambiguous hour a little before dawn, I felt the tension double that had tied my stomach in knots since Pedro rode away. I had spent a good part of the night praying, not from an excess of faith, but from fear. Speaking directly with the Virgin always calmed me, but during that long night she had not eased the ominous premonitions tormenting me.

I threw a shawl around my shoulders and made my usual rounds, accompanied by Baltasar, who had the habit of following me like my shadow. The house was quiet. I did not meet Felipe, but I wasn't worried; he often slept with the horses. Like me, he was an insomniac. I often ran into him in my nighttime prowls through the rooms of the house. He would be in some unexpected place, motionless and silent, his eyes wide open in the darkness. It had proved pointless to assign him a straw mattress, or a specific place to sleep; he lay down anywhere, without even a blanket to cover him. I went out front to the plaza, and noticed the faint light of a torch on the roof of Aguirre's house, where they had assigned a soldier as lookout. Thinking that the poor man must be fainting with fatigue after so many hours on solitary guard duty, I warmed a bowl of soup and carried it to him.

“Thank you, Doña Inés. Can't you rest?”

“I am a bad sleeper. Anything new?”

“No. It has been a peaceful night. And as you can see, there is a little moonlight.”

“What are those dark splotches over there by the river?”

“Shadows. I've noticed them for a while now.”

I stood watching a moment; it was a strange effect, as if a great, dark wave were overflowing the riverbanks to join another coming from the valley.

“Those shadows are not normal. I think we should advise Captain Quiroga; he has very sharp eyes.”

“I cannot leave my post, señora.”

“I will go.”

I raced down the steps, followed by Baltasar, and ran to the home of Rodrigo de Quiroga at the other end of the plaza. I waked the Indian guard, who was asleep across the threshold that would one day house a door, and ordered him to summon the captain immediately. Two minutes later Rodrigo appeared, half dressed, but with his boots on and his sword in his hand. We hurried back across the plaza and up the steps to Aguirre's
azotea
.

“No doubt about it, Doña Inés. Those shadows are humans creeping in this direction. I think they are Indians with something like dark blankets pulled over them.”

“How can that be?” I exclaimed incredulously, thinking of the marqués de Pescara and his white sheets.

Rodrigo de Quiroga sounded the alarm and in less than twenty minutes the fifty soldiers, who in those days were always primed for action, met in the plaza, each wearing armor and helmet, with weapons ready. Monroy organized the cavalry—we had only thirty-two horses—and divided it into two small detachments: one under his command and the other under Aguirre's, both having decided to confront the enemy before they penetrated the town. Villagra and Quiroga, with harquebusiers and a few Indians, remained in charge of internal defense, while the chaplain, the women, and I prepared to supply the defenders and treat their wounds. At my suggestion, Juan Gómez took Cecilia, two Indian wet nurses, and all the nursing babies of the colony to the cellar of our house, which we had dug with the idea of storing provisions and wine. He handed his wife the small statue of Nuestra Señora del Socorro, kissed her on the lips, blessed his son, sealed the cave with some boards, and shoveled dirt over the entrance. The only way he had to protect them was to bury them alive.

Dawn came on that eleventh day of September. The sky was cloudless, and at the moment the timid spring sun illuminated the outlines of the city, the Indians' monstrous
chivateo
rang out, the war cries of thousands of natives rushing toward us in a solid mass. We realized that we had fallen into a trap; the savages were much cleverer than we had thought. The party of fifteen hundred men who formed the contingent supposedly threatening Santiago had been a lure to distract Valdivia and a large part of our forces; later the thousands and thousands hidden in the forest would use the shadows of night to approach the town under cover of dark blankets.

Sancho de la Hoz, who had been rotting for months in a cell, yelled to be released and given a sword. Monroy decided that all arms were desperately needed, including those of a traitor, and ordered the chains to be removed. And I give witness that the courtier fought that day with the same ferocity as the rest of the heroic captains.

“How many Indians do you calculate are coming, Francisco?” Monroy asked Aguirre.

“Nothing to upset us, Alonso! Maybe eight or ten thousand. . . .”

Our two parties of cavalry galloped out to confront the first attackers, furious centaurs lopping off heads and limbs and crushing chests beneath the hooves of their horses. In less than an hour, nevertheless, they began to fall back. In the meantime, thousands of yelling Indians were already racing through the streets of Santiago. Some of the Yanaconas, and several women trained by Rodrigo de Quiroga months before, loaded the harquebuses for the soldiers to shoot, but the process was long and clumsy; the enemy was on top of us. The mothers of the babies in the cellar with Cecilia were more valiant than the most experienced soldiers; they were fighting for their children's lives. A rain of fiery arrows fell on the straw roofs, which, even though they were damp from the August rains, burst into flames. I realized that we would have to leave the men to their harquebuses while we women tried to put out the fire. We formed lines and passed buckets of water, but we quickly saw that it was futile; arrows kept falling and we could not afford to waste water on the fire, since soon the soldiers would need it desperately. We abandoned the houses on the periphery and grouped in the Plaza de Armas.

By then the first wounded were arriving, soldiers and Yanaconas. Catalina, my helpers, and I had organized as usual: rags, hot coals, water, and boiling oil; wine to disinfect and
muday
to help bear the pain. Others of the women were preparing soup pots, water gourds, and corn tortillas; it would be a long battle. Smoke from burning straw covered the city; our eyes were burning and we could barely breathe. As men came in bleeding, we tended to their visible wounds; there was no time to remove their armor. We gave them a cup of water or broth, and as soon as they could stay on their feet, they staggered off to fight again. I do not know how many times the cavalry held off the attackers, but the moment came when Monroy decided that it would not be possible to defend the entire city; it was burning an all four sides, and Indians occupied nearly all of Santiago. He conferred briefly with Aguirre and they agreed to fall back and combine all our forces in the plaza, where the aged Don Benito had already sat himself down on a wooden stool. His wound had healed, thanks to Catalina's sorcery, but he was weak and unable to stand for long at a time. He had at hand two harquebuses and a Yanacona helping to load them, and all through that long day he wrought havoc among the enemy hordes from his invalid's perch. He fired so steadily that he burned the palms of his hands on the red-hot weapons.

While I was busy with the wounded inside the house, one group of assailants climbed over the adobe wall of my patio. Catalina gave the alarm, screeching like a stuck pig, and I ran to see what was happening. I did not get far; the enemies were so near that I could have counted the teeth in those ferocious, war-painted faces. Rodrigo de Quiroga and González de Marmolejo, who had strapped on a breastplate and taken up a sword, came to drive them back, since it was essential to defend the house where we had the wounded and children hidden in the cellar with Cecilia. Some of the Indians confronted Quiroga and the priest while others started burning my plants and killing my domestic animals. That was what drove me over the edge; I had cared for each of those animals as I would the children I never had. With a roar that rose from my entrails, I ran toward the Indians—though I was not wearing the armor Pedro had had made for me; I could not treat the wounded while immobilized inside that metal. I am sure my hair was standing on end, and I was foaming at the mouth and cursing like a harpy; I must have presented a very threatening picture because for an instant the savages stopped and stepped back in surprise. I have never known why they didn't crush my skull right there. I was later told that Michimalonko had given the order not to touch me because he wanted me for himself, but those are stories people invent after the fact to explain the inexplicable.