Chicomácatl, Agreement with the Totonacs — Nahuatl XI

 Chapter XXIII: Aboard the Brigantine

The brigantine sailed close to the coast, avoiding the mangroves that spread out like a green labyrinth. At the bow, a sailor cast the sounding line and sang out the fathoms; another, by the helm, corrected the course at every call. Jaramillo went from one side to the other, watchful of the dark water, because those coasts were unknown to them and he feared the brigantine would run aground on a sandbank or that some reef would open up the hull.

Ix Balam watched from the gunwale. He did not understand the sailors' calls, but he understood the fear: he saw it in the way they looked at the water, in the hands that gripped the ropes, in the silence that fell each time the sounding line sang one fathom less. He had traveled in canoes all his life, but never in a ship like that one, and that voyage seemed to him reckless.

Jaramillo approached the bow, where Aguilar was.

—We've gone two days without news of Cortés. He went ahead with the flagship and we haven't seen him since.

Ix Balam, who was nearby, looked toward the horizon without waiting for a translation. Something didn't add up. If Cortés had gone ahead, why hadn't they seen him?

—Perhaps he found something —he said in Maya, and Aguilar translated—. Or perhaps something found him.

Jaramillo looked at him hard.

—What do you mean?

—That these coasts are not safe. There are peoples who do not receive foreigners well. If Cortés landed without waiting for reinforcements...

—Cortés knows what he's doing —Jaramillo cut in, but his voice betrayed a doubt.

The coast closed in suddenly. The brigantine left the open sea and entered a narrow arm of the mangrove. The water was dark, and the mangrove roots scraped the sides of the ship. The sounding line kept singing, but now the fathoms were fewer and fewer, and the sailors looked at the bottom with distrust.

—Mud bottom —said the man with the sounding line—. Three fathoms. Two and a half.

Jaramillo ordered the sails shortened and the oars put into the water. The brigantine advanced slowly, steered by main strength, while the men at the bow scrutinized the water in search of sandbanks.

Suddenly, Ix Balam raised his fist.

—Stop.

—What's wrong? —they asked, puzzled.

—Voices. Oars. —Ix Balam pointed ahead.

Jaramillo ordered the oars stopped. They were still at the mouth, where the channel was wide and the view reached far. A few hundred paces away, a launch was advancing slowly toward them.

—It's a launch —said Jaramillo—. And it's coming this way.

Ix Balam slipped to the bow, crouching. In the launch were four men: two Spanish soldiers and two indigenous oarsmen. At the stern, a man in light armor with a thick beard held the helm.

—It's Alvarado —said Jaramillo, and his voice relaxed—. Damn it, finally.

The launch stopped alongside the brigantine. Alvarado stood up and, with the agility of a man who has spent years at sea, grabbed the rope ladder and climbed aboard. His men climbed up behind him. His face was sweaty and his clothes stained with mud.

—Xaramillo —he said—. I'm glad to see you haven't lost your Galicians. We'll need them to navigate these waters.

Jaramillo nodded with a half smile.

—I'm glad to see you too, señor. A Galician sailor doesn't get lost in these lands. Since we already know each other, you know from your own experience that I get lost in taverns, but not at sea.

And the two men embraced.

When they separated, Alvarado wiped his forehead with his forearm.

—We've camped on the beach, facing the island. A wide beach, of firm sand. There's fresh water, and the natives who live nearby don't seem hostile. It's a good place to land.

—An island? —asked Jaramillo.

—Yes. The natives call it Chalchicueyecan, because of the sandy beaches. Ours call it San Juan de Ulúa, because Grijalva arrived there on Saint John's Day, a year ago. I was with him. We landed facing the island, not on it.

Jaramillo ordered the table set in the poop castle. It wasn't much: jerked meat, hard biscuit, a little watered wine. But after two days of sounding line and mangrove, the men found it glorious.

Alvarado ate with appetite. Ix Balam, seated beside Aguilar, looked at the jerked meat with distrust and pushed it away with his finger.

—What is this? —he asked in Maya.

—Beef —said Aguilar—. Dried and salted. It's not venison.

Ix Balam tasted it. He made a face.

—I'll stick with fish.

Alvarado laughed.

—The boy has good taste.

Jaramillo poured more wine.

—Señor, tell us what you've seen. How did you get here?

Alvarado set down his cup.

—I set out to explore from the camp, looking for a passage north. I went into the mangrove waters, through an arm like yours. There's no passage: only mud, roots, and increasingly shallow water. We had to turn back, and on returning to the sea through one of the channels, we came upon you. Good luck, because I no longer knew how to get back to the beach without crossing the mangrove.

—And the beach? —asked Jaramillo.

—It's good. Firm sand, fresh water, and the natives who live nearby don't seem hostile. Cortés has already ordered the camp set up: wells, huts, a cross planted in the sand. But there's a shortage of hands. And a shortage of soldiers.

—And Cortés? —asked Jaramillo.

—Cortés marched inland, to a city called Cempoala. Tabscoob told him about it: they say its people are vassals of the Mexica and pay them tribute. Cortés wants to reach an agreement with them and then go up to the highlands, where Mexico is, the city of the great lord who rules all these lands.

—And you didn't go with him? —asked Jaramillo.

—No. I stayed on the coast, securing the camp. Someone had to. But the idea is for all of us to go up soon.

—And what do we do in the meantime? —asked Jaramillo—. Do we keep going through the mangrove?

—No. The mangrove leads nowhere. We'll have to return to open sea and follow the island north. The beach is there opposite, and there's the camp Cortés has set up.

Ix Balam, who had listened without understanding, leaned toward Aguilar.

—What are they saying?

—That we'll soon be back with Cortés.

Alvarado finished his wine and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

—Jaramillo, as soon as we're ready, take the brigantine out of this arm and return to open sea. Follow the island north. I'll go with you and get into the launch when we're near the beach.

After eating, Jaramillo ordered the anchor raised. The launch was towed from the stern. The brigantine began to maneuver to leave the mangrove arm, steered by main strength, while the men at the bow sang out the fathoms again.

The water cleared and the air smelled of salt. The mangrove was left behind, and they returned once more to the sea. From the bow of the brigantine, Ix Balam watched as they skirted the coast. Suddenly, he saw the green island, and facing it, on the beach, a row of huts, a tall cross, and the smoke of several fires.

—There —said Alvarado—. That's Cortés's camp.

Jaramillo ordered the brigantine brought as close as the sounding line allowed and the anchor dropped. The sails went slack, and the ship stopped, rocking on the clear water. The sun fell flat on the deck, and the air smelled of salt and burning wood.

Then they brought the launch alongside. It came towed by the ship.

Alvarado and his men descended into it by a rope ladder, and with them Aguilar and Ix Balam. Ix Balam settled in the bow and looked at the beach: the huts were low, of branches and mud, and among them moved men in armor and others barefoot, natives coming and going carrying bundles. The tall cross shone in the sun.

The indigenous oarsmen sank their oars. The launch glided toward the beach. When they were a few steps from the sand, several men from the camp entered the water and received them, gripping the gunwale to beach it on the shore.

 

 

Chapter XXIV: The Agreement

The ambassadors of Potonchán arrived at Cempoala before the Spaniards. There were three: Ah Kin, a nobleman in Tabscoob's confidence, and two elders who had served as messengers between the coastal chiefdoms for more than twenty years. They carried no letter or gift that could be read. They carried a message learned by heart, divided among the three, so that none of them could repeat it whole on his own. Only together could they reconstruct it, word for word.

Chicomácatl, lord of Cempoala, received them in his palace, beside the plaza. The Maya of Potonchán were not his enemies: they had traded with the Totonacs for generations, salt and cotton for cacao and obsidian, and each chiefdom looked after its own interests. But times had changed, and the cacique knew it.

Ah Kin spoke first:

—Tabscoob, lord of Potonchán, sends his greeting.

At his signal, they struck the ground with their staffs before Chicomácatl. They found the rhythm, and upon that rhythm, the three of them began to reconstruct the message, one after another, like one reciting a tale learned by ear:

—From the sea come men.
—White men, with beards.
—Their houses float on the water.
—They ride unknown animals.
—They bring weapons that spit fire.
—Fire that kills.
—Our weapons, powerless.

Chicomácatl listened to the end without interrupting. Then he looked at them sternly.

—We have already heard of them. The Mexica say they are gods. Others say they are demons.

Ah Kin spoke again:

—They are not gods. They are men. Men who want land and gold. But they can be useful to you to free yourselves from your yoke.

The cacique kept silent. Ah Kin continued:

—Remember the defeat you suffered two years ago, when Moctezuma massacred your warriors on the plain. Since then you pay double. Your harvests rot in the storehouses of Tenochtitlan while your children are taken to sacrifice on their altars.

The elder on the right added:

—These foreigners do not come to demand tribute from you. They come to take it from the one who demands it of you.

—And what will they want in return? —asked the cacique.

Ah Kin replied:

—Give them as a friend whatever they ask. Warriors, guides, food. Because they can take everything they want. But what you give them will be less than what Moctezuma will take from you.

Chicomácatl looked at his nobles. Then he asked:

—And if I refuse?

—Moctezuma will keep collecting his tribute. And you will keep paying.

The cacique nodded slowly.

—Let them come. I will receive them.

Ah Kin bowed his head.

—Tabscoob does not betray his allies.
 
Chicomácatl received Cortés in the plaza, surrounded by nobles and his principal men. At his side, two barefoot elders, with their white hair gathered and their faces painted with ochre, held clay censers from which a thread of copal smoke rose: they were the priests of the great temple of Cempoala, who never left the lord's side when there was dealing with foreigners. To the captain's right went Bernal Díaz, who missed no detail of what he saw; to his left, Gonzalo de Sandoval, with his hand on the hilt of his sword. Behind, with paper and pen ready, the scribe Alonso de Torres, attentive to everything said so as to set it down in writing. The group was closed by half a dozen trusted soldiers and two friars of the expedition, with the crucifix before them. Malintzin walked beside Cortés, a step behind, her eyes lowered and her voice ready. Through her, the Totonac lord complained bitterly about the Mexica.

—They hold us as slaves —he said—. They take our harvests, our women, our children. If you are enemies of Moctezuma, then you are our friends.

Cortés did not answer at once. He let the silence stretch, looked at Malintzin to make sure she had understood correctly, and then ran his eyes over the Totonac nobles surrounding the cacique. Then he spoke in a grave voice:

—You will no longer pay tribute to the lord of Tenochtitlan. I will protect you from him and from any other enemy. But I ask that you submit to the crown of Castile, and that you recognize the king of Spain as your lord. If you do so, my king will take you under his protection, and I will defend you with my men and my arms. In return, I need your warriors, your guides, your food.

Chicomácatl did not answer. He looked at Cortés, then at Malintzin, then at the soldiers surrounding him. His face showed no fear, but calculation. After a moment, he turned without a word and withdrew toward his palace, followed by his nobles and the priests.

After the talk with Cortés, the Totonacs gave them lodging. They were low houses of stone and mud, beside the plaza, with mats spread on the floor and jars of fresh water. The Spaniards settled in as best they could. Some took off their armor and sat on the ground, exhausted. Others stood guard at the door, more from habit than necessity.

Cortés withdrew to a separate room. Bernal brought him a little bread and wine, and asked if he wanted to be left alone.

—No —said Cortés—. But let no one disturb me until tomorrow. Tomorrow we will talk.

The night passed without incident. The Totonacs did not approach the Spaniards' houses, and the sentinels saw nothing strange.

Moctezuma's tribute collectors arrived with the sun. They were not the three the cacique expected. There were five, and they came with an escort of twenty Mexica warriors, armed with macanas and leather shields. They did not come to collect the month's tribute. They came to collect it in advance, and to demand explanations for the rumors that had reached Tenochtitlan about some bearded foreigners.

Chicomácatl received them in the palace, seated on his mat, with the nobles around him. The chief of the collectors, a tall man with a headdress of green feathers and a scar on his cheek, entered unannounced and did not sit or deign to greet anyone.

—Moctezuma wants his tribute. All of it. The arrears as well.

The cacique tried to gain time.

—I don't know what you're talking about.

The collector looked toward the houses where the Spaniards were lodged, and then again at the cacique. He made no gesture. One of the Mexica warriors stepped forward and let his macana fall to the ground, once. The blow sounded throughout the palace.

—Moctezuma has many men —said the collector—. We are five. More are coming behind us.

Chicomácatl looked toward the houses. Then he looked at his nobles. Then, again, at the collector.

—Wait here —he said—. I'm going to fetch the tribute.

And he left the palace, and sent for Cortés.

Cortés arrived with Bernal and two soldiers. Ah Kin accompanied him as interpreter, and Malintzin waited by the door.

Chicomácatl was pale.

—Moctezuma's collectors have come. Five, with twenty warriors. They want the tribute, and they want to know who you are. If I don't give it to them, they'll return with an army.

Cortés listened without interrupting. Then he asked:

—Where are they?

—In the palace. Waiting.

—And how many men do you have?

—Two hundred. But I don't dare use them. If I kill the collectors, Moctezuma will send his whole army.

Cortés did not smile this time.

—You will not kill them.

—And what will you do?

—Detain them.

Chicomácatl looked at him with alarm.

—Detain them? Do you know what that means?

—It means you can no longer back out —said Cortés—. Neither you nor I.

He left the palace without waiting for an answer.

The collectors were still standing in the palace, with their arms crossed. The twenty Mexica warriors were behind them, in formation.

Cortés approached with a firm step, followed by Bernal and a dozen soldiers. Malintzin went at his side, in silence, until they reached the collectors.

—Tell them I am the captain of these men —said Cortés—. And that the tribute will not be paid.

Malintzin translated. The scarred collector looked him up and down, unhurried, the way one looks at an animal one does not yet know will bite.

—And who are you to decide that?

Cortés did not answer. He made a gesture with his hand.

The Spanish soldiers threw themselves on the collectors. The Mexica warriors reacted instantly: they seized their macanas and shields and hurled themselves at the Spaniards. The palace became a chaos of shouts and steel.

The Spaniards were few, but they wore armor and iron swords. The Mexica, with their obsidian macanas and leather shields, fell one after another. The fight was brief and brutal. When it ended, eight Mexica warriors lay on the ground, and the rest had fled or been detained. The five collectors were bound hand and foot, thrown against the wall.

Chicomácatl, who had watched everything from a corner, covered his face with his hands.

Cortés approached the collectors. The scarred one looked at him with rage.

—Moctezuma will find you. And he will make you pay for this.

Cortés did not answer. He turned to his men.

—Put them in the stone house. The one beside the temple.

The soldiers dragged the collectors to the house. It was a low building, with thick walls and a single door. They put them inside and closed the door with a beam.

Cortés then turned to Bernal.

—Bring gunpowder. And torches.

Bernal looked at him with alarm.

—Señor...

—Bring them.

The soldiers brought two small barrels of gunpowder and several lit torches. Cortés ordered them placed by the door and under the windows of the house. Then he himself took a torch.

He paused an instant. He looked at the closed door. Inside, someone was beating the wood with the palms of his hands.

He put the torch to the gunpowder.

The fire caught with a roar. The flames rose up the wooden door and licked the stone walls. Inside, the collectors began to scream. Their shrieks were heard throughout the palace and in the plaza, sharp, desperate, while black smoke came out the windows and rose toward the sky.

Chicomácatl covered his ears. The Totonac nobles watched the scene without daring to move. The Spanish soldiers, in silence, observed the flames. One of them, a young man from Extremadura who could not have been more than eighteen, crossed himself and looked away.

The screams lasted less than they expected. Then there was only the crackling of wood and the smell of burnt flesh.

When the fire went out, the house was still standing, but the door had disappeared and the interior was black with soot. Inside, the collectors were dead.

Cortés turned to Chicomácatl.

—There is no turning back now —he said—. If Moctezuma sends vengeance, it will be against you and against me. But if you stand firm, you will have what you have never had: freedom.

Chicomácatl looked at him with fear and with something that was not gratitude, but need. He had seen what Cortés was capable of. And he had understood that, with a man like that, it was better to be at his side than in front of him.

—We will be vassals of your lord —he said—. Because you are more cruel than Moctezuma.

Cortés nodded slowly. Then, without turning, he called with his hand.

—Alonso de Torres.

The scribe stepped forward, with paper and pen ready. He had been beside the soldiers throughout the burning, pale, without writing anything. Now he wet his pen and waited.

—Record —said Cortés— that the lord of Cempoala, here present, submits to the crown of Castile and recognizes the king of Spain as his lord. And that we, those here present, bear witness to it.

Alonso de Torres wrote the heading of the act. Then he blew on the ink and held the paper out to Chicomácatl.

—Let the lord of Cempoala sign first —said Cortés.

Chicomácatl looked at the paper without understanding. He did not know how to read or write. But he understood what they were asking of him. He put his hand to his chest and took off a pectoral of jade and gold, small, with the figure of a bird carved in the center. He held it a moment in his palm, as if weighing it, and then held it out to Cortés with both hands.

—This is what I am —he said in his language, and Malintzin translated—. What I have been and what I have ruled. Take it. From today, my lord is your lord.

Cortés received the pectoral with both hands, with the same gravity with which a surrendered sword is received. He looked at it an instant and then handed it to the scribe.

—Note it down —he said—. And keep it with the document.

Alonso de Torres took the pectoral, wrapped it in a cloth, and put it in the box. Then he looked at Chicomácatl and the nobles surrounding him.

—And the others? —he asked—. Do they also give their word?

Chicomácatl turned to his nobles. One after another, the principal Totonacs stepped forward and touched the paper with the palm of their hand, in silence. The scribe noted their names as they passed.

When the nobles finished, Chicomácatl made a gesture toward the two elders who had accompanied him from the beginning. The priests advanced slowly, with the censers in their hands.

They stopped before the paper. The oldest of them looked at Cortés, then at the document, and then at Chicomácatl. He said something in Totonac, in a grave voice, and Malintzin translated in a low voice:

—He says the gods have seen what has happened today. And that if the lord of Cempoala gives his word, they give it too. That the copal smoke be witness.

The priest raised the censer and passed it over the paper, slowly, three times. The white smoke curled over the paper. Then the elder touched the paper, leaving his mark with his fingertips, and the other priest did the same.

Alonso de Torres noted their names, or what he could understand of them.

Then Cortés took the pen. He signed with a firm stroke, and behind him Bernal Díaz and Sandoval stamped their names. The friars added theirs.

Alonso de Torres blew on the ink, closed the document, and put it in the box, beside the pectoral.

Chicomácatl watched everything in silence. He did not understand what they were writing, but he understood what it meant: there was no turning back now.

It was then, seeing him standing there, sweaty and pale, that the Spaniards began to call him "the Fat Cacique." They did not say it with contempt, but with that brusque familiarity that Cortés's men gave to everything they found in that land. The nickname would stay with him, and in time would replace his name even among his own people.

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