A Land So Strange

By Andrés Reséndez

From the book A Land So Strange: The Epic Journey of Cabeza de Vaca by Andrés Reséndez. Copyright © 2007. Published and reprinted by arrangement with Basic Books, a member of the Perseus Books Group (www.perseusbooks.com). All rights reserved.

Chapter 1

The Prize That Was Snatched Away

THE STORY OF CABEZA DE VACA AND HIS COMPANIONS has its origins in the Caribbean archipelago, that immense arch of green gems set against a turquoise sea that was Spain’s first foothold in America. There, at the edge of an unexplored continent, two partners dreamed of ruling a vast and wealthy colony on the mainland. They nearly succeeded. But a heartless betrayal caused their venture to unravel in the end. The Florida expedition was a direct consequence of this failure. It was a second and even more desperate bid for a continental possession and a last-ditch effort to remake a life.

The older and more influential of the two partners was Diego Velázquez, a widower beloved for his banter and constant talk of pleasure and mischief. During his long career as a colonist in the Caribbean, he had witnessed a good deal of human misery. But he also liked to laugh and often found himself surrounded by eager listeners. He had taken his chances by accompanying Columbus on his second voyage in 1493 and by staying on a God-forsaken island that turned out to contain the largest gold deposits anywhere on those islands. Velázquez was also resourceful at waging war and getting the vanquished natives to work in his mines. In a little more than a decade, he emerged as the richest resident of Española, the island shared today by Haiti and the Dominican Republic.

Yet, more than his gold, Velázquez’s network of allies and acquaintances constituted his greatest asset. From Española a wave of conquests radiated in all directions, so Velázquez summoned his influence within the imperial bureaucracy and relied upon his contacts at the Spanish court to secure colonization rights. His playful demeanor belied great ambition. By 1511 he had obtained the crown’s authorization to occupy Cuba, the largest island of the archipelago and potentially even richer than Española.

The conquest of Cuba would require much help, so Velázquez sought out the kind of men who could make this undertaking a reality. Most crucially, he struck up a partnership with a fierce-looking adventurer named Pánfilo de Narváez. The two men got along well from the start. They hailed from nearby towns in Spain’s central plateau and complemented each other admirably. Velázquez may have been well connected, but he was getting old, and his expanding waistline was already the butt of jokes. Narváez, by contrast, was still in his thirties and looked every bit the part of the Spanish conquistador: tall and muscular, with light hair turning to red, a ruddy beard, and a deep, booming voice, “as if it came from a vault.”

The genial administrator and the intrepid adventurer imposed their will on Cuba rapidly, leaving no doubt that their alliance worked well. Velázquez wrote letters to the King and prudently surveyed the southern coast with a fleet of canoes. Meanwhile, Narváez cut an east-west swath right through the middle of Cuba at the head of 100 Europeans and perhaps 1,000 Indian porters. In just four years, this band of outsiders crushed all native resistance, turning a lush island into a sordid outfitting station and a brave new colonial experiment.

Buoyed by their success, the two partners felt sufficiently confident to set their sights even higher. For a time the possibilities seemed unlimited.

 

USING CUBA AS a base, Velázquez ventured farther west. Early in 1517 he dispatched an expedition that drifted onto the Yucatán Peninsula, probably blown off course and not intending to go so far. What the Christian sailors saw there astonished them: large temples made of stone and mortar, Indian nobles adorned with extravagant headdresses, exquisitely designed ornaments of gold and silver. They had come in contact with the Maya. They also brought back to Cuba two natives from Yucatán; “Old Melchor” and “Little Julián,” who were able to elaborate on first impressions.

Velázquez, ordinarily a man of steely patience, seems to have been overcome with excitement. He hastily cobbled together a second expedition, which departed in January 1518 under the command of Velázquez’s nephew, Juan de Grijalva. The spring and summer months of 1518 seemed interminable for Velázquez as he waited for word from his relative. At last, in the fall, this second exploratory party returned to Cuba carrying precious objects obtained by barter with the Indians of Yucatán. In their possession was gold valued at between 16,000 and 20,000 pesos, considerably more than what the Spaniards had been able to extract from Cuba in an entire year. The stuff that made dreams of El Dorado seem all too real.

But Diego Velázquez was now in a bind. Although faced with a colossal opportunity, he had exhausted his financial resources by launching two expeditions in two consecutive years. He could not wait too long to launch yet another expedition, for rumors of the wealth of Yucatán were already reaching the ears of potential competitors. The plump master of Cuba desperately needed to find a partner, someone who would captain a third fleet to claim these new lands for the greater glory of Spain, and for his own.

There is little doubt that Velázquez’s first choice would have been Pánfilo de Narváez, his old partner and trusted right-hand man. But, alas, Narváez was in Spain at the time, serving as a representative of the island of Cuba at court. Within Cuba itself there were very few settlers wealthy enough for a venture of this magnitude. So in spite of some misgivings, Velázquez decided to send Hernán Cortés.

Cortés was one of the original conquerors of Cuba. He was vivacious, likable, and literate; he could even pepper his speech with Latin. Velázquez promptly recognized these qualities and made Cortés his personal secretary in 1512 or 1513. For several months Cortés acted as Velázquez’s confidant and most trusted representative in matters that required diplomacy and tact.

But the two men had a falling out. It appears that Cortés began to chafe under Velázquez’s command. In 1514 Cortés, ever the man of action, tried to make his way back to Española bearing a load of letters that detailed Velázquez’s abuses for members of the audiencia of Santo Domingo (a high court with jurisdiction over Cuba). As fate would have it, Cortés was seized before leaving Cuba. At first Velázquez wanted to have his secretary hanged, but, with the passing of time, and after many residents interceded on Cortés’s behalf, his rage subsided. Eventually Velázquez relented and turned Cortés loose but refused to restore him as secretary.

For Cortés it was a defining moment. From then on he did his utmost to regain Velázquez’s trust, “behaving so humbly and seeking to please even the lowliest of Velázquez’s servants.” In this, he had some success. Cortés asked Velázquez to be a godfather witness in his wedding. The two men became compadres. When Cortés learned of Velázquez’s proposal to jointly explore Yucatán, it must have seemed to him like the culmination of a long and arduous process of social rehabilitation.

At the threshold of a new phase in his life, Cortés seized his destiny like a possessed man. He talked to friends and neighbors; bought a carvel and a brigantine; and used his formidable powers of persuasion to procure wine, oil, beans, and chickpeas on credit. But as the months of preparation wore on, Velázquez began to worry over Cortés’s independence of character. At the eleventh hour he attempted to relieve his old secretary of command. By then, however, Cortés was too deeply involved to be stopped. In the early hours of November 18, 1518, he gathered his ships, crews, and soldiers and left Cuba in haste. When Velázquez was notified that Cortés had taken to sea, he hurried to the shore at daybreak. With Velázquez beckoning to him, Cortés got on a small boat and rowed within earshot. Velázquez reportedly shouted to him: “Why, compadre, are you going so? Is this a good way to say farewell to me?” Cortés could barely respond.

It was not an auspicious beginning to the expedition. Velázquez, the great leader of Cuba, the astute administrator who still claimed powerful backers at all levels of the imperial bureaucracy, would seek his revenge. He would eventually launch a fourth armada, larger and better supplied than the previous three, to extend his authority over the mainland and bring back the outlaw Cortés—in chains, if necessary. This time he would entrust the task to his old partner, Pánfilo de Narváez.

 

BY THE TIME Cortés took to the sea, leaving Velázquez shouting from the shore, Narváez had been absent from Cuba for three years. He had spent this time in Spain following the court. It should have been a pleasurable tour of duty, a welcome respite from the rustic New World. Instead it turned into a hellish experience.

Narváez had traveled to Spain to act as Diego Velázquez’s representative at court and secure some privileges for his fellow
European settlers in Cuba. Narváez had plans for himself as well. Being already at court, and at great expense, he intended to get the King’s permission to lead an expedition, either to present-day Colombia or to Central America.

Yet Narváez never quite made himself at home at the court. He found many reasons to complain, beginning with the transient lifestyle. The Spanish court in the sixteenth century was perpetually on the move. It resembled a roving circus of eccentrics, traveling at times on dignified ships and carriages but more often than not on donkeys or by foot on dusty roads. The King’s duties took him everywhere, and his unceasing wandering exacted a heavy price of those forced to follow him.

When the court resided in sizable cities the logistics were straightforward, but numerous problems arose when it passed through small towns. For instance, a man at court had to give out generous tips to the aposentadores, the court officials charged with making the lodging arrangements. In the absence of such a bribe, the courtier was liable to wind up in a bleak inn far from the ear of the King and his ministers. It was only the first of a great many expenses. The courtier was responsible for paying a veritable army of service providers: butchers, bakers, and winemakers for supplies; woodcutters for fuel to stay warm; shoemakers and tailors for elegant clothing; doormen who controlled access to the King; royal servants who eased matters in his presence; secretaries who controlled the pace of the business being transacted; and so forth. None of this came cheaply. Bishop Antonio de Guevara, a seasoned courtier and author of a how-to manual for those wishing to join the court, put it very eloquently: “Where the court resides nothing is sold and everything is resold.”

In addition to money, a petitioner like Narváez needed a thick skin. Individuals wishing to join the court were subjected to constant scrutiny and mockery. They could be ridiculed for dressing too extravagantly or too plainly, for being too eager to get on with their business or too timid and roundabout in approach, or for lacking proper manners or affecting manners above their station. The hapless courtier could only smile at such humiliation and turn the other cheek. One angry word was enough to jeopardize his painstaking lobbying effort. Courtiers spent their nights devising schemes to approach this or that minister and their days solving the innumerable problems posed by an extravagant lifestyle on the trail. It went on for months at a time, driving all but the most determined men to desperation. A nobleman who left his family believing that he would be back in two months quite frequently spent six at court without obtaining any appreciable results, other than having wasted a good portion of his estate.

Shrewdly, Narváez and his companions began to lobby for favors by delivering to the monarch the first large consignment of Cuban gold, totaling 12,437 pesos. Nothing could have been more persuasive to King Ferdinand than the promise of similar remittances in the future. The Cuban delegation also enjoyed the support of some influential court members, chief among them the bishop of Burgos, Juan Rodríguez de Fonseca. The good bishop was a mercurial man of striking contrasts worthy of a novel. Although a man of God, he was exceedingly savvy in worldly affairs. Bishop Rodríguez de Fonseca had helped to organize Columbus’s second voyage and had made a career out of mustering armadas, an occupation “more suitable for ruffians than bishops,” as one contemporary insightfully noted. The bishop also happened to preside over the royal committee that administered all of Spain’s New World possessions, the powerful Council of the Indies. He ran the council from the comfort of his home and as he saw fit. As it turned out, this influential figure was notoriously—even scandalously—partial toward Diego Velázquez. It was rumored that the bishop wanted to marry one of his spinster nieces, Mayor de Fonseca, to Velázquez, a widower whose previous marriage had lasted barely a week. It was also said that Velázquez, in return, had granted a substantial stake of Indian servants from Cuba to the bishop. Whether all the rumors were true, Narváez could expect to be warmly received by Rodríguez de Fonseca.

Narváez’s lobbying campaign could have succeeded, if not for two extraordinary and unforeseen complications. The first was the death of King Ferdinand. Just as Narváez was getting settled at court as it traveled through western Spain, Ferdinand fell seriously ill and promptly died in late January 1516. The court was thrown into disarray and all negotiations had to be suspended.

The King’s death must have impressed Narváez profoundly. Ferdinand’s long and portentous reign, first jointly with Queen Isabella, had spanned Narváez’s entire life. During that time Spaniards had lived through their most heroic and hopeful days as the Catholic monarchs unified their realms, drove the last Muslim enclaves out of the Iberian Peninsula, and sponsored the expedition of an obscure Genoese that culminated in the discovery of America. In five decades Ferdinand and Isabel had managed to parlay a collection of disheveled kingdoms at the tip of Europe into the most promising empire in the world.

Yet for all their successes, the Catholic monarchs had failed to prepare an orderly succession. By 1516 Ferdinand’s most direct heir was his daughter, Juana, a woman who had remained secluded in the castle of Tordesillas in central Spain for seven years. She refused to bathe or change her clothes and would not eat in the presence of others. Her behavior was so erratic and contrary to prescribed royal protocol that she became known to history as Juana the Mad. This condition was brought about (or at least exacerbated) by her tumultuous marriage to Philip the Fair, an archduke from the Low Countries who enjoyed the company of other women. Juana’s possessiveness and jealousy lingered even after Philip’s death in 1506. Some accounts state that Juana had her husband’s coffin repeatedly opened to make sure that the body had not been snatched away and describe how she knelt down and kissed Philip’s feet immediately after the shrouds were removed.

After Juana, the next in the line of succession was her eldest son, Charles. At the time of Ferdinand’s death Charles was still a gangly sixteen-year-old, born and raised in the city of Ghent in Belgium. He was quiet, indolent, somewhat awkward, and very much the tool of his ambitious Flemish advisors. In the eyes of many Spaniards, Charles of Ghent represented a foreign intrusion, as he did not even speak Spanish. But the mental condition of his mother thrust him onto the throne—and he took it. After bidding adieu to the Flemish Estates in July 1517, Charles and his entourage journeyed first to Tordesillas, to obtain the endorsement of Queen Juana, and then around Spain to meet his new subjects.

For Narváez, the unfolding of this stately drama only resulted in delays, as months of waiting turned into years. In the meantime, he had to contend with a second unforeseen complication. One day in late 1515, a friar by the name of Bartolomé de Las Casas joined the court. Las Casas had been Narváez’s chaplain during the conquest of Cuba, but now he was a much changed man. Friar Las Casas had experienced an epiphany that would propel him to devote the rest of his life to the passionate defense of the natives of America. According to his own account, this flash of moral insight occurred when he was preparing a sermon to celebrate Pentecost in 1514. While perusing the Ecclesiasticus he stumbled on these words:

The bread of the needy is their life: he who defrauds him thereof is a man of blood.

He who takes away his neighbor’s living slays him; and he who defrauds the laborer of his hire is a bloodshedder.

Las Casas began his remarkable transmutation by returning to Diego Velázquez the Indians that had been apportioned to him as reward. Within months Las Casas became notorious throughout Cuba for preaching that God intended the natives to be free. More threateningly still, he took to warning his fellow Europeans that enslaving Indians or reducing them to servitude constituted a mortal sin.

From Cuba the embattled priest took his crusade to the Spanish court, where he found many sympathetic ears. He aired his views and regaled court members with horrific stories of New World ruthlessness and uncontrolled greed. Narváez’s exploits figured prominently among them. In 1516 Las Casas introduced three Memoriales (formal petitions or requests) detailing various atrocities perpetrated against the Indians in Cuba and elsewhere in the Caribbean. Narváez was forced to respond, disputing some of Las Casas’s claims and stating that his former chaplain was “an irresponsible man of little authority and credibility who speaks of things that he did not see.” Still, the reformist movement at first succeeded so well that it not only put Narváez on the defensive but also undermined the power of Bishop Rodríguez de Fonseca, a principal backer of Cuba’s conquerors and chief proponent of a system that was based on the exploitation of Indian labor.

Las Casas pressed ahead with his campaign. His solution to the Indian problem was both disarmingly simple and extremely radical: “The Indians need to be placed beyond the grasp of the Spaniards, because no remedy that leaves them in Spanish hands will stop their annihilation.” He further explained that the Spaniards already living in the New World, who would be unable to sustain themselves, “had to be helped to make a living without committing sin and on the basis of their own industry.” A group of Indian-holders and representatives from the Indies that included Narváez resolutely opposed the movement to set the Indians free, dryly claiming that the Indians “do not have the capacity to remain by themselves” and warning that any effort to deprive New World colonists of Indians would constitute a serious breach of the terms under which they had agreed to go to the new lands.

This quarrel reflected a long-smoldering controversy within the empire that would continue to rage for decades. Las Casas would go on to publish a brief but incendiary treatise in 1552 entitled The Devastation of the Indies that would expose Spain’s abuses and establish its reputation as a cruel colonial power around the world. Yet, from Narváez’s perspective, the battle over the treatment of the Indians constituted an unfortunate distraction. By the beginning of 1518, he had little to show for a stay of more than two years in Europe.

It was the news of Diego Velázquez’s discoveries in the Yucatán Peninsula that finally brought an end to Narváez’s frustrating sojourn in the Old World. Reports of Velázquez’s discoveries reached the court in late 1517 or early 1518, changing completely the nature of Narváez’s embassy. His most pressing concern now was to help Velázquez secure the administration of these new lands. In a matter of months his efforts bore fruit, perhaps owing to the excitement over the discoveries or to the influence of Bishop Rodríguez de Fonseca, who was able to reassert his power in the nascent administration of King Charles.

Narváez got most of what he wanted. In November 1518, the King named Velázquez adelantado (civilian authority) of Yucatán and appointed Narváez as contador (comptroller). The King also ordered that Narváez be paid his full salary as an advocate of Cuba for the entire period that he had spent in Spain, surely a most welcome relief. King Charles even took the time to write to Diego Velázquez, praising Narváez for his services and recommending him highly. Thus Narváez ended his torturous experience in the Spanish court on a high note, a fact that would weigh heavily on his future plans.

In early 1519, Narváez returned to Cuba. He arrived just a few weeks after Hernán Cortés had brashly made off with the ships, which raised questions about the fate of the Yucatán that Narváez had just secured for Velázquez.

 

REMARKABLY, VELÁZQUEZ had not immediately appreciated the extent of Cortés’s treachery and the seriousness of his challenge. In complete control of Cuba and now also secure in his lifetime appointment as adelantado of Yucatán, he could scarcely imagine that a servant (un criado), with no court backing to speak of, could turn into a serious rival. Certainly Cortés had left in a hurry, but he had done so out of fear that he would be relieved of the command of the expedition to Mexico. Velázquez still hoped that Cortés would act as his agent. Indeed, from November 1518 (when Cortés left) to August 1519, Velázquez was content to wait for news from his spirited envoy. He even sent additional supplies.

Cortés did not waste his time during these months. His fleet first sailed west toward the Yucatán Peninsula and then coasted along the Gulf of Mexico, finally stopping in San Juan de Ulúa, a little island in close proximity to the mainland with a good harbor. There Cortés and his men came in contact with the most powerful indigenous kingdom on the continent. They learned that the center of this fabulous empire—the city-state of Mexico-Tenochtitlán—lay not on the coast, but 200 miles inland on a high plateau, and that its ruler was a magnificent lord named Moctezuma. Thus began an epic exchange conducted with runners, couriers, and spies. Cortés explained to Moctezuma’s emissaries—from a relentlessly European perspective that must have surely mystified them—that King Charles, “ruler of the largest part of the world,” had sent him to pay his respects; that he and his men intended to begin their ascent toward Mexico-Tenochtitlán; and that they wanted an audience with the powerful Moctezuma.

Moctezuma’s first impulse was to avoid contact with these odd strangers. He lavished presents on the Spaniards instead (carried by as many as 100 porters), hoping to induce them to return contentedly to wherever they had come from. Little did Moctezuma know that his extraordinary gifts, far from dissuading Cortés and his men, only fanned the flames of their greed. The Spaniards were delighted to receive several gold samples that were the size of garbanzo beans and lentils; necklaces of jade set in gold; golden bells; scepters studded with precious stones; gold rings; a roomful of breastplates and shields of gold and silver; human figurines of jugglers, dancers, and hunchbacks; statues in solid gold of jaguars, monkeys, and armadillos; two wooden disks as large as carriage wheels, one covered with gold and the other one with silver; many cotton blankets and cloaks with intricate chess-like patterns of white, black, and yellow; magnificent headdresses of large and shiny feathers unknown in Europe; and two screenfold books, or codices, made of bark and containing stylized drawings of humans and animals. It was a treasure trove that easily dwarfed anything that had been previously found in the New World.

Cortés decided to use these astonishing riches to open a direct line of communication with the King of Spain. From the coast of Mexico, Cortés dispatched a ship that was to skip Cuba entirely and go to Spain, avoiding the most common sailing routes. In addition to the treasure, the ship transported two representatives from Cortés whose charge was to negotiate directly with King Charles, circumventing Velázquez’s authority.

Although the plan was to sail on to Spain, the vessel ultimately touched on Cuba in August 1519. One of Cortés’s agents, Francisco de Montejo, suggested a brief landfall at his estancia in northwestern Cuba to take on some provisions before crossing the Atlantic. At least one startled resident was allowed to go on board and gaze at the Indian objects and hear some of the stories about the Aztecs and their lord Moctezuma. Although the witness had been sworn to secrecy, he revealed that the booty on the ship was so enormous that “there was no other ballast than gold.”

Velázquez became livid when he learned of Cortés’s treachery. He immediately sent two ships in hot pursuit to seize the treasure on the high seas or at least warn Spanish authorities of Cortés’s fraud and request that the objects be confiscated. Velázquez and Narváez also vowed to stop Cortés and press their claim on a land that promised fabulous wealth. No resources were spared. With the two most powerful men on the island working side by side, an armada of eighteen ships, eighty horses, and more than 1,000 men and a few women was assembled by early 1520. The armada was roughly twice as large as that of Cortés. So many Europeans became involved in this expedition and so few would remain in Cuba that the island would become vulnerable to being reclaimed by the Indians.

Velázquez considered leading the expedition to Mexico himself. But he was already too old and, as some playfully observed, too fat for such an undertaking. Narváez would lead it. He must have relished the staggering stakes involved. In uncharted lands, Narváez and his men would face not one but two enemies: a renegade band of Europeans and the most powerful indigenous polity in the hemisphere, possibly making common cause with each other. Yet Narváez remained confident. In the presence of Velázquez he boastfully declared that “even with half as many people, I am certain to imprison Cortés so you can do with him as you please . . . when the time comes I will know how to treat Cortés, he will respect me and come back as a son, and I will send him to you so he’ll never raise his head again.” Narváez’s overconfidence would resurface again and again in the course of his life, at last with tragic results.

By February of 1520, Narváez and his fleet were prepared to leave Cuba. However, before the army could sail, Velázquez and Narváez had to deal with one last nettlesome bureaucratic affair. Authorities in Española had gotten word of the brewing conflict between Velázquez and Cortés, and the likelihood of a civil war among Spaniards in Mexico had them worried. Wishing to prevent the spilling of blood among brothers in the new lands, a most disastrous precedent, the audiencia of Santo Domingo hurriedly dispatched one of its own as a mediator, the licenciado Lucas Vázquez de Ayllón. Sailing on two ships put at his disposal, this resourceful fifty-year-old man met both Narváez and Velázquez and did his best to dissuade them from their plan of direct confrontation. Instead of initiating hostilities, the licenciado reasoned, Velázquez and Narváez would gain more by simply sending two or three ships with provisions for Cortés, along with some discreet agents who could find out more about his intentions and remind him of his duties and royal orders. More menacingly, the licenciado Vázquez de Ayllón notified Narváez that he would face a penalty of 50,000 ducats if he insisted on taking his armada to Mexico.

The proud conquerors of Cuba refused to recognize the authority of the audiencia of Santo Domingo and, undaunted, proceeded with their preparations. The licenciado made arrangements of his own to follow Narváez to Mexico, where he would continue his mediating role.

Narváez’s fleet (including the licenciado’s two ships) first crossed the Straits of Yucatán in March 1520. Following Cortés’s route, the expedition continued along the Gulf Coast of Mexico, skirting the modern states of Campeche, Tabasco, and Veracruz. The gulf is a relatively small and self-contained body of water, but sailing it can be treacherous. During the winter months the gulf is buffeted by a series of polar air masses known as northers. These unstable fronts of cold air come down from Alaska, barreling through North America, and descend on the gulf’s warm waters, producing gusty winds and pouring rain that can last for days at a time. They seem to materialize out of nowhere and hit with great force. Although the norther season lasts from October to March, it is possible to get caught in one even in the spring. Near Veracruz, Narváez’s difficulties began when a norther caught up with them in early April as they sailed under the shadow of the Sierra de San Martín. One ship capsized, six others were damaged, and 40 men drowned. It was the first recorded shipwreck in the Gulf of Mexico.

Narváez’s problems would only continue. Wishing to spare 60 ailing men as well as all of the women on board from the impending showdown with Cortés, Narváez put them ashore at the Río de Alvarado, where the armada had briefly paused to reassemble. The sick men and the women were to remain as guests of the indigenous people of Tuxtepec until Narváez could assess the level of danger the mission faced. Unfortunately the group left behind outlived its welcome and was massacred by the hosts some weeks later.

The rest of the fleet was able to reach San Juan de Ulúa in late April 1520. Some of the ships were badly in need of repairs. Aztec lookouts on the coast promptly spotted the Spanish armada. They made a drawing on a cloth of eighteen vessels, five of them wrecked on the beach, and sent it to Moctezuma with fast runners. It did not take long before Narváez and Moctezuma were exchanging messages. Narváez sent word that he had come to Mexico to apprehend Cortés and his soldiers, who were bad men with no license from the King of Spain, and that after capturing Cortés they would all go back to Castile. Encouragingly, Moctezuma confirmed that Cortés was in Mexico-Tenochtitlán and, as he had done earlier, showered Narváez with valuable presents. Evidently, the Aztec leader was playing the two sides against each other.

Having learned of Cortés’s whereabouts, Narváez disembarked his men and horses and established a permanent settlement on the mainland. The veteran captain conducted a formal ceremony of possession—an act that must have seemed to him like the culmination of his lobbying efforts in Spain. He then founded the town of San Salvador, probably where the modern city of Veracruz now stands. In a matter of weeks San Salvador grew into a substantial settlement of some eighty or ninety houses surrounding a plaza, a church, and a jail. It also boasted city officials and magistrates appointed by Narváez but whose authority derived ultimately from the King of Spain himself.

Although peaceful on the surface, the small settlement was divided against itself. Certainly there were those who supported the Velázquez-Narváez faction, but many others in the expedition were either indifferent or sympathetic toward Cortés. Some of the rank and file, for instance, had consented to go to Mexico only under duress, as Velázquez’s vigorous recruiting in Cuba had involved strong-arm tactics and veiled or explicit threats. After weathering a severe storm, these reluctant “volunteers” had little appetite for battling a group of fellow Europeans just to settle a personal score in which they had no stake. Others were less loyal still: a group of hardened adventurers who enlisted merely as a means of leaving Cuba and reaching the “new world of gold” that they had heard so much about. Far from wanting to antagonize Cortés, these pragmatists were more inclined to join him to secure a place at the victor’s table when the spoils were distributed.

And into this combustible mix, the licenciado Vázquez de Ayllón and his staff had inserted themselves. Here was a royal judge from Española who had opposed Narváez’s enterprise all along, and who had objected to the decision to disembark the men and found San Salvador on the grounds that it would upset the neighboring Indians. Worse still, Vázquez de Ayllón was gaining a following among expedition members who wished to avoid a clash. When Narváez’s determination to deal harshly with Cortés became clear, the licenciado and his followers turned defiant. Narváez had the town crier in San Salvador proclaim that Cortés and his party were bad men. But the licenciado continued to speak favorably of Cortés and even exchanged letters and gifts with him.

Narváez reacted to Vázquez de Ayllón’s betrayal by having the licenciado seized and locked up on his ship along with his secretary and servants, and another ship loaded with his supporters. The masters of both vessels were ordered to sail back to Cuba. Narváez would come to regret his heavy-handed treatment of the royal judge. En route, the licenciado was able to bribe and threaten the ship’s master into changing their destination from Cuba to Española. Upon rejoining his colleagues at the audiencia of Santo Domingo, Vázquez de Ayllón gave vent to his long-suppressed frustration and anger with Velázquez and Narváez, and the ever-changing constellation of influences and powers swirling around the Spanish court began to tilt against Velázquez and in favor of Cortés.

Yet back in Mexico it appeared as though Narváez’s decisiveness and sheer manpower would prevail. Four defectors from Cortés’s army walked into Narváez’s camp one day, offering crucial information. Over food and wine they told how Cortés and his band had boldly made their way to Mexico-Tenochtitlán, where they had lived for months as “guests” of the Aztecs and their lord, Moctezuma. That was an incredible feat, but one that also put them in extreme peril. Mexico-Tenochtitlán was nothing short of a deathtrap. It was a wonder of a city, built on an island in the middle of a lake, connected to the shore only by drawbridges, and home to perhaps 250,000 Indians. But at any moment the bridges could be lifted, the Indians could turn into fierce warriors, and Cortés’s party would be lost forever without any hope of help. “Just how much better it is to be here”—the four defectors mockingly exclaimed in front of Narváez—“drinking good wine and beyond Cortés’s grasp who had us all so overwhelmed day and night as we awaited our deaths from one day to the next.” The red-bearded commander surely hoped that these four men were merely the first of a raft of defectors pushed to the brink by a megalomaniac leader.

Above all, Narváez felt reassured by the good reception of his large expedition by the natives of Mexico. Contrary to what the licenciado Vázquez de Ayllón had feared, the Indians were immediately impressed by the number of men, ships, and horses at Narváez’s disposal and became quite friendly. It must have been especially pleasing to Narváez to learn that the Totonac Indians of the city-state of Cempoallan, the largest and most powerful community in the area near Narváez’s settlement, as well as Cortés’s first indigenous ally, had now decided to throw in their lot with this second and more impressive contingent of Europeans. The ruler of Cempoallan—an individual named Tlacochcalcatl but whom the Spaniards for the sake of expediency called the “fat cacique”—warmly welcomed Narváez and invited him to come forward. Narváez obliged. Hoping both to secure the approach to San Salvador and take advantage of the chief’s hospitality (i.e., food), he moved his troops and weapons into Cempoallan, located 20 miles inland. Narváez established his command and artillery right on top of the pyramids and temples of Cempoallan. From these elevated positions he was able to dominate the plains that extended in front of this large city-state.

When Cortés learned of Narváez’s arrival, he had little choice but to divide his expedition. He left about 200 men in Mexico-Tenochtitlán to preserve a precarious standoff with the Aztecs. With the balance of his forces—fewer than 350 men—Cortés retraced his steps to Cempoallan to face a far superior force. But Cortés had a tool than Narváez lacked: gold. Cortés excelled when it came to bribery: he had put together his expedition and kept it together in the face of overwhelming danger by rewarding his men with booty and promising further riches. Now he employed the same tactics with Narváez’s men. As Cortés approached Narváez’s camp, he sent negotiators, spies, and plenty of gold.

A sagacious priest, Friar Bartolomé de Olmedo, and his namesake, Bartolomé de Usagre, were Cortés’s two most crucial advance men. Accompanied by a mare loaded with gold, the two envoys approached Narváez’s camp and sought to win over key members of his expedition. Usagre met with his own brother, who was in charge of Narváez’s artillery, and gave him gold chains. Friar Olmedo spoke in confidence with Rodrigo Martín, Narváez’s other artilleryman. Martín would receive more than 1,000 pesos for blocking the main cannon with wax. Cortés’s envoys also carried letters addressed to virtually all of Narváez’s principal captains and civil authorities of San Salvador; each one was offered 20,000 castellanos should they join Cortés. It appears that Narváez’s camp was soon awash with Cortés’s gold.

During much of the month of May 1520, Narváez and Cortés spun fantastic webs of intrigue and counter-intrigue. Cortés sent at least three delegations into Narváez’s camp, each composed of operators like Friar Olmedo and Usagre, bent on neutralizing and subverting the enemy. Narváez also sent his own intermediaries and attempted to bribe some of Cortés’s lieutenants by offering future authority, since he did not yet possess Mexico’s gold. Narváez even set up an elaborate trap by consenting to a face-to-face encounter with Cortés, along with ten men from each of their camps. Narváez’s plan was to hide a cavalry unit behind a hill that was to fall on Cortés and his delegates, instantly capturing or killing them. In the end, Cortés gained the upper hand because he had a larger stash of gold and appeared to be in control of the fabled Mexico-Tenochtitlán, “the richest city in the world,” facts that hard-nosed conquistadors could hardly ignore.

After frantic weeks of negotiations without an amicable solution, Cortés’s men started their advance on Cempoallan on the night of May 28—29, 1520, in the midst of a raging storm. Narváez had never believed that Cortés would dare to fight a force that was four times as large; Cortés may have been attempting to make a show of force to improve the terms of his surrender, but nothing more. Even after one scout informed Narváez that Cortés’s forces were about 3 miles from camp, the leader could not bring himself to take the threat seriously.
Tlacochcalcatl, the “fat cacique” who had taken refuge in Nar­váez’s quarters, feared Cortés and understood him far better than Narváez. He predicted that Cortés would attack when least expected. But Narváez’s lieutenants only laughed: “Do you take ‘Cortesillo’ to be so brave that, with the three cats which he commands, he will come and attack us just because this fat chief says so?”

He did. Cortés’s forces closed in on Cempoallan so rapidly that Narváez’s artillery, already compromised by bribes and secret agreements, was able to inflict only minimal damage. As the rain let up and the moon and the fireflies appeared, one of Cortés’s detachments surrounded the base of the pyramid where Narváez had set up his command. They ascended the steps, wielding long pikes with iron tips and challenging Narváez’s crossbowmen on the upper platform.

The fight intensified as Cortés’s men reached the top steps and approached a shrine of wood and thatch from which Narváez and some thirty men had been firing guns and arrows. As Cortés’s detachment drew near, Narváez’s warriors reverted to swords and pikes. Narváez himself emerged swinging a two-handed broadsword, and a pitched battle ensued.

After hours of hand-to-hand combat, Narváez’s cavernous voice rose above the murmur of war: “Holy Mary, they are killing me and have shattered my eye!” A pike thrust had emptied his right socket. Narváez’s men were brought even closer to surrender when one of the attackers set fire to the thatched roof, leaving them completely exposed and surrounded. It was just a matter of time before Cortés’s soldiers were able to quell all resistance on the pyramid and elsewhere in Cempoallan. During the wee hours of the night after the battle, Narváez pleaded for medical attention. His doctor was eventually found, and he and his captains were placed in irons in a nearby temple.

It was not an ordinary victory. Cortés won over Narváez’s men and with his combined forces would go on to topple the Aztec empire. Even today, schoolchildren learn about Hernán Cortés’s exploits in Mexico. Yet hardly anyone remembers Diego Velázquez or Pánfilo de Narváez. It is hard to believe that there was a time when the opposite was true.

 

NARVáEZ SPENT YEARS “shackled and in chains,” according to one witness, and rotting away in the moist, warm, and mosquito-infested coast of Veracruz. He nearly escaped once by offering to buy a ship in which to escape to Cuba, but the ploy was discovered and his accomplice was summarily tried and sentenced to death. For a man so proud and accustomed to victory, imprisonment must have been indescribably bitter: Narváez surely brooded over every mistake he had made and every man who had betrayed him. He also had to cope with life with one eye.

At least Narváez was able to console himself with the thought that Cortés had been a formidable adversary. In 1522 Narváez was transferred from Veracruz to Mexico-Tenochtitlán and on the way had occasion to gaze at a part of Mexico that thus far had eluded him. When Narváez came into Cortés’s presence in Coyoacán, overlooking Mexico-Tenochtitlán, he could not suppress a tinge of admiration: “I have seen the many cities and lands that you have tamed and subjected to the service of God and our Emperor, and I say that Your Lordship must be praised and honored.” No small compliment, coming from Cortés’s archrival.

Back in Cuba, Velázquez was doing everything possible to neutralize Cortés through legal and political means. But his star was on the wane and his life was at an end. He died in June 1524. In his testament Velázquez recounted how he had outfitted the expeditions that discovered Mexico, had honored Hernán Cortés by naming him captain of one of them, and then had been ignominiously cheated out of the big prize. Velázquez believed that his heirs were entitled to at least 45,000 to 50,000 pesos in gold from Cortés. No such payments were ever made.46

María de Valenzuela, Narváez’s wife, was more levelheaded. Showing greater insight into Cortés’s soul, she pleaded with the conqueror of Mexico to spare her husband’s life. But knowing that pleading might not be enough, she also prepared to offer a rich ransom for his release. It did not come to that. Sometime in 1524 Pánfilo de Narváez, no longer the threat that he once had been, was allowed to return to Cuba. Without his right eye, and scarred forever from his experience in Mexico, he rejoined his family.

During the months that he spent in Cuba surrounded by family and friends, Narváez had ample time to meditate on the entire arc of his life. His successful career as a colonist and conquistador was now overshadowed by the embarrassing debacle in Mexico. And even though Narváez was approaching fifty—already an old man by the exacting standards of his age—he might still have time to lead one last expedition. Pride must have played a distinct role in his deliberations. One of his friends counseled him to desist of his foolish plan and “retire peacefully to his house into the bosom of his family, giving thanks to God for the sufficiency he possessed to go through this stormy world so full of troubles.”

But the veteran conquistador could not be dissuaded. In Spain Pánfilo de Narváez would seek retribution from Cortés. And in a final gamble, he would also try to restore his life.