The Moor's Account (14 page)

There is no gold, the treasurer repeated.

The governor slipped a finger under his black eyepatch and rubbed forcefully underneath it. The Indians saw us coming, he said. That is why all their men are gone. They went to hide the gold.

All around the city square, the settlers were lighting the evening torches. Slowly, the fading light of the day gave way to the yellow glow of the torch. In the trees, an owl began to hoot.

My son, the commissary said. He spoke kindly, as if he were about to invite a confession or comfort a gravely injured man. My son, I do not
believe the Indians are hiding gold. If they did indeed have gold, their dwellings would not be made of straw and their women and children would not be naked.

Señor Narváez looked confused, as if the friar had spoken to him in a foreign language. The notary started to bite his nails—it was a nervous habit that seemed to have grown worse over the last few days, because the tips of his fingers looked raw. My master took off his helmet and handed it to me without looking back.

There is no gold, Señor Castillo said with finality.

Of course there is gold, the governor replied. Where else did the fisherfolk get the pebble that Dorantes found in Portillo? Or the charms that you yourself found in Santa María?

I noticed that the governor's tone was laced with a touch of blame. He sounded, or tried to sound, like an innocent man who had been misled by the traces of gold his officers had found. Señor Dorantes must have noticed this, too, because he put his right hand on his hip in a defensive stance. It was slowly dawning upon all of us that Apalache had no gold and there would be no glory. My fantasies of victory for my master and freedom for me had turned so completely awry that, for a moment, all my senses felt numb. I was rooted in my spot, unable to move, and my eyesight blurred. I thought about that night, long ago in Azemmur, when I had agreed to sell my life for a bit of gold. My father and my mother had both warned me about the danger of putting a price on everything, but I had not listened. Now, years later, I had convinced myself that, because I had been the first to find gold in La Florida, my life would be returned to me. But life should not be traded for gold—a simple lesson, which I had had to learn twice.

It was a long while before the voice of Señor Castillo reached me. The Indians did not get the gold from here, he said. This entire land is poor.

Señor Narváez looked at the young captain with disgust. How would you know what lies in this entire land? Since our arrival in this territory, you have pressed us to run back to the ships.

This is not about the ships, Señor Castillo countered. This is about the gold.

Señor Dorantes joined the quarrel. You told us that the prisoners mentioned gold, he said. As much gold as in México. Have they lied to you, Don Pánfilo? Or did you misunderstand what they said?

The elders teach us: when the cow is down, the knives come out.

But Señor Cabeza de Vaca intervened. There is no need to quarrel, he said. We should set up camp here for a few days. Then we can explore. We might yet find something valuable in the area around here.

Señor Narváez nodded, and the captains took this for their order to disperse. Señor Dorantes turned around and, as if suddenly noticing me, he said: What are you waiting for, Moro? Go water the horse.

I could feel the heat of his anger and disappointment. He had been pleased with me for finding the pebble of gold, but now he blamed me for its failure to deliver the kingdom. How foolish I had been to expect anything from him. I already knew about his fickle nature—on the ship that had brought us to La Florida, I had seen with my own eyes how quickly he formed friendships, especially when he needed something, and how easily his loyalties shifted when his needs changed—why did I think he would be different with me? Perhaps it was because, in those days, I fed my hopes of freedom in whichever way I could, without realizing that I was only hooking myself to different lures.

F
ROM A DWELLING
he took for himself, Señor Narváez issued decrees throughout the rest of the evening. He declared that the soldier who was to be punished for stealing corn should be released instead, to celebrate our entrance into the city. He allowed the entire company double rations of beans for the next three days. All the woven blankets, animal hides, baskets—indeed, anything at all of any value in Apalache—had to be brought to him, and he divided the loot, most of it among his men. He assigned a large dwelling to the friars, one to the notary and the tax inspector, several to the captains, one as a prison, and thirty to the soldiers and settlers. The Indian women and children he quartered inside the earth mound.

In short, he attempted to govern.

But, as I discovered later that night, his orders did little to quell the captains' concerns. My master had been given an Indian dwelling, which he shared with Diego, Señor Castillo, and a friend of his named Pedro de Valdivieso. I had made a stew of beans and roasted some corn on the cookfire, which was built in the center of the lodge. Ventilation for the fire was provided by means of a hole in the roof, making it possible to prepare warm meals in any kind of weather. This was something I was particularly grateful for, as I did not want to be outside, exposed to the
mosquitoes that traveled in thick clouds or, worse, to a sudden attack by the men of Apalache.

Señor Dorantes and his friends sat on fox furs while I ladled the stew and served it to them. I sat a few paces away from the Castilians, right by the entrance, and began to eat. Ordinarily, I ate alone, after my master had finished his meal, but the farther we went inland, the less these matters of decorum seemed to matter to him. Besides, if I had stayed outside and was injured by an Indian arrow, who would have prepared his meals? Who would have fed his horse or washed his clothes?

How long are we to remain here? Diego was asking. Did the governor say?

No, Señor Dorantes said. He wants to explore the area around the city, but I doubt he will find anything. We should be looking for the ships now, before it is too late.

It is not too late, Diego replied.

How can you say that, Chato? Have you any idea how precarious our situation is?

I just mean that you should have some faith.

Señor Dorantes shook his head. He looked as if he had used up all his faith, the way he had used up other luxuries like wine or cured meat. He said: When I tried to talk to the governor, he refused to acknowledge me. He told me he wanted to eat his dinner in peace.

But there was no peace to be had. We had just finished our meal and were still enjoying the feeling of being satiated, when we were all jolted out of it by a woman's horrifying screams. As I was nearest the doorway, I lifted a small portion of the deerskin and peeked outside. Some soldiers were dragging women out of the earth mound. The women clawed at the men's faces and pulled their beards, but the men easily restrained them. One of the Castilians lifted a girl off the ground and, slinging her over his shoulder like a sack of wheat, he ran to his lodge.

Señor, I said. Look.

My master pulled the deerskin wide open, so that all his kinsmen could see what was happening. It was dark outside, the only light coming from the torches that the men had placed to light the path to the necessary. We could see the shapes of the men as they pulled the women away, but we could not make out their faces.

Who are they? Diego asked.

They are not my men, Señor Dorantes said.

How can you tell? Whose men are they?

The governor's men.

Instinctively, we all looked toward the dwelling Señor Narváez had taken for himself. The fire inside was lit, the smoke rising out of it in a straight line. The page appeared in the doorway, and then disappeared back inside. Nothing else moved.

But how can you tell they are the governor's men and not yours? Diego asked.

Estebanico, my master said. Close the door.

I let go of the deerskin and returned to my seat. I covered my ears with my hands, but it was useless—I could still hear the women's screams. I closed my eyes, but the image that came to me was of Ramatullai under the weight of that vile Castilian, the pink soles of her feet, the look of shame in her eyes. The image tortured me, reminding me of my powerless rage. Here, halfway across the world, this servant of God was still just as alone, just as helpless. I tried to turn to happier memories, the sort that had sustained me during my journey to Seville and later to La Florida. I wanted the memories to help me escape from this wretched land, even if my exile's dreams were the only place I could go. But now I found it hard to conjure up images of the past on my own. It was as if I was no longer able to return to the times and places I chose, as if my past was no longer mine, as if it were receding from me. Worse yet: I could no longer escape to a future that involved my freedom. I had only the present, the dreadful present.

Eventually, the women's cries subsided, and a new silence fell on Apalache. I opened my eyes again. My master poked the fire with a stick and picked up the conversation where it had stopped. In the morning, he said, I mean to ask the governor—

A tremendous chorus of drums interrupted him. It came from the earth mound, where the women and children were held, and its sound rose so steadily that it now reached every part of the town. Then, over the sound of the drums, came the voices of the Indian women, mourning for their abused sisters. Their cries briefly rose to a high pitch, before extending into a low note, sustained and anguished. It was a communion of pain, and no one in the city could pretend not to have heard it. The women had made witnesses of us, even those of us who had chosen to close our eyes.

•  •  •

I
WAS BRINGING IN LOGS
for the morning fire when I heard the panicked cries of a settler. Indios, he shouted. Indios allá! A group of Apalache men, numbering at least a hundred and armed with bows, lances, and hatchets, were marching into the city. How they had gone past the sentinels that were posted at the entrance of the town, I never knew. (Perhaps the sentinels had been asleep. The long march through the wilderness in the heat of the summer had caused the soldiers, and indeed most of us, to suffer from fatigue, which the disappointment of not finding the gold had only worsened.) Now the Apalache warriors were flooding into the square, looking around them at all the signs of foreign presence—the horses tied to new posts, the crates of tools, and the strange white men who now appeared in doorways.

I dropped the wood and ran back into the lodge where Señor Dorantes lay asleep, stretched out between his kinsmen. Señor, I said, shaking him. The Indian men have returned. He shot to his feet—his hair was disheveled and his shirt wide open, but his eyes were alert. I helped him put on his armor. Of course, I had no such means to protect myself, not even a coat of quilted cotton, like those the settlers had made for themselves. Still, I went outside with him and the others. All around the little square, soldiers and settlers were coming out of their huts, weapons in hand. Finally, the governor appeared in his doorway, wearing his armor but not his helmet or blue sash. His eyepatch, hastily pulled on, rested on his head at a perilous angle.

As the governor came forward, two of the Apalaches detached themselves from the others. One wore a headdress of dyed animal hair and carried a long lance decorated with feathers. He had small, quick eyes and a scar that ran the length of his right arm. The other one was younger and had a bow slung across his chest. They took turns speaking, their voices urgent and threatening. Their arrival had been so sudden and unexpected that Pablo, the Indian interpreter, had not been brought forth from his cell. In any case, I thought, there was no need for an interpreter, because it was not difficult to guess what they wanted: their wives, their children, their homes.

Calmly the governor said, I am Pánfílo de Narváez.

The two Indians watched him unblinkingly; if the name of the governor caused them to be impressed or intimidated, their faces did not immediately betray them. The governor repeated his name, this time at a
much slower pace: pán-fi-lo-de-nar-vá-ez. Then he pointed his forefinger at them. He was expecting the man who seemed to be their leader, the one with the crest of red animal hair on his head, to speak his name, too, the way Dulchanchellin had. But this cacique spoke at such length that it quickly became clear he was not simply stating his name. As he spoke, his left hand, the one holding the lance, moved in tempo with his words.

Have you any idea what he is saying? Señor Dorantes asked the governor.

I want him to say his name, the governor replied. But he does not understand me.

Maybe he said something else.

It is a simple enough question, Dorantes. The governor pointed his finger once again at the cacique. What is your name?

The Indian leader said something. One word—or at least it seemed it was one word, because it was short.

What did he say? Señor Dorantes asked.

Kamasha, said the governor, or Kaimasha? Komasha?

Señor Dorantes shrugged. Something like that, at any rate. So now what?

Now Kamasha raised his lance in the air. Its point, I noticed, was made of bone and fire-hardened wood. The soldiers reached for their swords and muskets, ready to fight at the first sign of confrontation, but Kamasha only brought his lance down to the ground with a great thud. That was when a swarm of butterflies, of a species I had seen neither in Barbary nor in Castile, appeared in the town square. These butterflies had large orange wings, which were laced with black veins and specked with white spots. I was amazed to see hundreds of them migrating across Apalache at such a moment. Their appearance, so soon after the cacique had hammered the ground with his lance, made it seem as if he had conjured them himself. For a moment, we were all of us stunned into silence.

But the governor soon returned to his questions. From his little finger, he pulled out a gold ring, which he held up to the cacique by way of asking where one might find such a metal in these parts. Kamasha and his deputy paid the ring no attention; they made great howling cries, which the warriors behind them echoed.