a long moment before responding. Clearly uncomfortable in speaking about himself, he stroked his graying mustache with the tips of his fingers saying, finally, “The facts are few, Governor. My origins are in Portugal. In Coina, five leagues from Lisbon. You may know it.”
“Lisbon, yes, but not Coina,” the governor responded. “A port city, I assume?”
“On the interior a bit,” Gomez responded, “with access to the sea like Lisbon, but much smaller, of course.” He waited before continuing, looking about the tent, choosing his words carefully as he said. “I’m the son of Manuel Gomez and Ana Vicente, both of whom died when I was a child. I was raised and schooled by my older brother, Fray Alvaro Gomez, a Franciscan in the Convento Grande in Lisbon and Commissary of the Holy Office. When I was thirteen,” he went on, speaking deliberately “I passed into the service of don Alonso de Onate at the Court of Madrid. He was there pleading the case of his brother, don Juan de Onate, regarding don Juan’s New Mexico contract. He brought me with him to Mexico when he returned there.”
“And when was that?” Rosas asked politely, as the two dipped into their soup.
“It was in sixteen four or five,” Gomez responded with uncertainty, “a year before I joined don Juan in New Mexico.
“Juan de Onate? New Mexico’s first governor?” Rosas asked rhetorically.
“Yes, New Mexico’s adelantado,” Gomez responded regarding the honorific office Onate had held. “I first served with don Juan, and then with Governor Felipe de Sotelo, whom I also escorted to New Mexico. I’ve been in service to the office of the governor since my arrival there.”
“As an encomendero?” Rosas asked. “As the recipient of an encomienda, one sworn to answer the governor’s call to arms when requested?”
“Yes, one of thirty-five in the colony,” Gomez responded. “My encomienda, good for three lifetimes in succession,2 is at the pueblo of the Pecos,” Gomez went on, giving no hint of the breadth of his extensive holdings which included New Mexico’s best-watered lands, tribute from its most prosperous Indian villages, and access to trade.
“The entire pueblo?” the governor asked incredulously. “Was the entire pueblo given to you?”
“Not the use of native land or labor, Governor, but the collection of tribute as personal income. I am allowed to collect tribute from the entire pueblo of Pecos, except for twenty-four houses which are held by the Maese de campo, my friend, Pedro Lucero de Godoy. Also from two and a half parts of the pueblo of Taos, half of the Hopi pueblo of Shongopovi, half of the pueblo of Acoma except for twenty houses, half of the pueblo of Abo,” he continued, “and the entire pueblo of Tesuque, although I receive services from the people there in lieu of tribute.” 3
The governor rubbed his hands together, looked at Gomez, raised his eyebrows, and blew between pursed lips. “And what do the other thirty-four have” he asked of the remaining encomenderos, shaking his head in disbelief.
“I won’t attempt to justify the amount of tribute I’ve been allotted, your Lordship,” Gomez said, flushing slightly and reverting to the governor’s more formal title, “except to say that I’ve been deeply honored to have carried out many commissions for the governors under whom I’ve served. My services have been very generously rewarded, far in excess of what I deserve. There are, however, over forty thousand Christianized Indians living in forty-three pueblos in New Mexico, and the range of our responsibilities is enormous.”
“And the tribute consists of . . . ?”
“Maize and a manta or animal skin, collected twice a year,” Gomez responded. “The manta is a piece of cotton cloth six palms square, reckoned in price at six reales. A buckskin, bison hide, or a light or heavy elk skin of the same value, may be substituted for a manta,” Gomez said, “with cloth and skins collected in May and a fanega of corn in October after the harvest.” 4
“And what do the Indians get for all of this?” Rosas asked.
“It’s difficult to say, Governor,” Gomez responded pensively. “As vassals of the crown they’re required to pay tribute. And the king has granted us encomiendas for our pledge to defend the land at our own expense. Those of us who have been designated as encomenderos are to maintain arms and horses, live in Santa Fe, and respond to the governor’s call to arms at a moment’s notice. We ride escort, serve as guards, and command levies from colonists and Indian auxiliaries in the colony’s defense. We like to think we make the kingdom a safer place to live, but in truth, your Lordship, I think the Indians get little from what we offer. We defend them from the vaqueros as best we can, but there are few of us, many of them, and millions of miles to cover. We assure the safety of the friars so that the Pueblos 5 are instructed in Christianity and in the ways of civilization, but, really, the Indians want little of that. They do not get much of what they truly want or need from Spanish authority.”
“Are all the pueblos allotted?” Rosas asked. “My instructions say only that the crown has reserved the right to collect tribute from principal towns and seaports, and I know there are none of the latter there.”
“Tribute from the native settlements has been conceded by the crown to the colonists themselves. Approximately sixty so-called ‘units of ‘entrustment’ have been allotted during the past forty years,” Gomez explained.
“There was a time, Governor, when the number of pueblos may have exceeded the one hundred and thirty-four named by Onate. These were small and large villages containing from twenty to seven hundred and fifty rooms, some with defensive walls such as at Pecos. But the Pueblos were constantly on the move,” he explained, “uniting and then dispersing like bees in a hive. Whole tribes have disappeared, extinguished by warfare and by assimilation, some of the latter forced on them by us. In the fifty years from the initiation of the colonization by Onate to your administration, the number of pueblos has been reduced by two-thirds, so that now there are fewer than fifty of them left. Several of these pueblos are unassigned, but the fact that they have not been allotted undoubtedly means that they have little to offer in the way of tribute. Still, Governor, they’re there. And they may be awarded by you to whomever you wish so long as your awards do not compromise the awards of your predecessors,” he concluded, warning the governor by his words that he knew the authority under which he held his claims.
The governor looked at Gomez in deliberation, saying finally, “There’s much to consider regarding these encomiendas, much to consider. Your thoughts and the information you’ve provided have been of considerable assistance to me. I’d like these discussions regarding New Mexico to continue as we go along our way.” He waited a long moment before continuing, saying finally, “But please, finish your soup. Take the rest of it. I need something more. Something to deal with this god-damned constipation,” he added while rubbing his distended stomach. “Would you like some more?” he asked, regarding the soup.
“No, thank you, Governor.”
“When your work allows,” Rosas continued, “I’d like you to dine with me.”
“When my work allows,” Gomez responded. Taking the governor’s words and tone as a cue for his dismissal, he rose from his cushion, excused himself, and moved toward the entrance where he said. “You might have one of your servants find some acacia, agave or algerita, your Lordship. All of them are good for constipation. If they can’t identity these plants,” he added, “tell them to ask one of my men. Have them make a tea of it,” he added as he left the tent.
4
On the Trail
ZACATECAS.
