de Villagrá. The Governor already had the news. The soldiers from the capital told how they had met him returning from his western explorations in a pleased frame of mind. In spite of having had reason to suspect disloyalty if not treachery at Ácoma on his way west in November, he had planned to spend the night there homeward bound. But the messengers with their awful news had saved him. In the open land by his camp they gave him a description of the massacre, for some of them had been there. He listened on horseback. When they were done, he dismounted and went to his knees and prayed aloud. Then in grief he walked to his tent, leading his horse, and ordered Pérez de Villagrá to make a rude cross of lashed branches. This was taken into his tent, where he asked to be left alone.
In the morning he ordered a formation and came out to speak to the men. His eyes were swollen and his face was haggard from lack of sleep. He had prayed all night for wisdom and guidance in the danger about them. Facing the soldiers he tried three times to speak, but could not, until at last he was able to say that they had all suffered a terrible loss in their comrades, who died martyrs. He spoke of dangers to come that must be met bravely, and he invoked their faith by saying that all knew it to be true that the more they suffered the greater would be their heavenly reward, and he placed all trust in God. He lifted up the soldiers’ hearts.
With that he gave marching orders and the exploring party turned toward the capital. It snowed. They drank melted snow from their helmets. It was hard marching in December on the friendless plains.
When he arrived home the Governor found all turned out to wait for him. They were weeping. He went to them, and in silence embraced each one of his people. He then led them into the church where he greeted the friars with his embrace, and the Father President led the priests who chanted in chorus the Te Deum Laudamus in thanks for the Governor’s safe return with his men.
The city of San Juan de Nuevo Mexico was in the form of a great square with four gates at which sentinels were now posted. All people carried arms. The Governor retired to his quarters and did not put away his belt and baldric, his sword and dagger, all night. He had a heavy decision to contemplate. Its basis in law was already, at his request, being considered by the Father President and the other friars.
21.
The Battle of Ácoma
He received their official opinion on the following day.
“What conditions,” he had asked them, “are necessary in order to wage a just war? In the event of such a war, what steps may be taken against those warred upon and against their possessions?”
In reply to the first question the learned friars made several points.
To begin with, there must be authority to wage war, as in the cases of Popés, emperors and kings, and those acting in their stead. The Governor was a delegate of the Crown. Plainly, he had authority.
And then there must be a just cause. The friars listed “to punish those who are guilty of wrongdoing, or have violated the laws of the land,” which clearly covered the crime of treacherous insurrection. The friars added that the final just cause for war was to establish peace, “for peace is the principal object of war.” The Governor could feel that he had more than one just cause.
Moreover, they stated, war must be waged with good faith, and without covetousness, malice, hate, or ambition for power. The Governor examined his conscience.
As to the second question, though several points were analyzed, the pertinent one seemed to be that about war against wrongdoers, and the opinion declared that “they and their possessions are at the mercy of their conqueror according to the laws of the land,” and could be “treated by divine and civil law, as law and justice require,” but any punishment visited upon the vanquished must be taken “to carry into effect the requirements of justice.” The Governor noted this respect for due process.
Finally, said the friars, “as the purpose of war is to establish peace, then it is even justifiable to exterminate and destroy those who stand in the way of that peace.”
The Governor could hear his duty clearly. If he had known doubt before he knew none now. He ordered public proclamation in the capital that “war by blood and fire” was declared against the Indians of Ácoma, and announced that he would himself lead the punitive army. Immediate protests of concern for his safety made him change his mind about taking personal command, and instead he named Vicente de Zaldívar to lead the return to Ácoma.
On the same day—December 22, 1598—a Requiem Mass was held for Juan de Zaldívar and all who had died with him. The cold, narrow, dark, clay church above the riverbanks resounded with the offices of the dead. It was, the church, as plain as a coffin and the spirit of all there that day filled it with fierce thoughts and prayers upon the reality of death.
But three days later came the great feast of Christmas, and the birth of life and purity in the world. All worked hard, and rededicated themselves in the midst of hazard, loneliness and loss; and resolve grew with the preparations for war.
Seventy picked soldiers made up the army against Ácoma. Each had his coat of mail, double strength. They had shields which when not in use hung from the shoulder. The lancers carried many designs in their tall weapons. Some had points called partisans, like sharp leaves facing both ways. There were glaives, which carried a plain, long knife with a sudden curve at the tip like an eagle’s beak. The halberds had an axe facing one way, a steel beak another, and at the very top, a long sharp point. All these the soldiers polished and tightened and sharpened. The firearms were taken apart, the springs tested, oiled and reassembled. Some musketeers carried the harquebus, others the petronel, which was fired with its butt against the breast. Colonel de Zaldívar had two pieces of brass artillery to take with him—culverins with the Spanish Crown engraved above their touchholes. The artillerymen polished them inside and out until they shone green with the blue sky. Gunpowder was sifted and spread thin to dry in the sun. The heavy fixed maces and the morning stars from Germany with a spiked ball hung by a short chain from the mace-staff were scrubbed with river sand. All riding equipment was inspected, repaired with rawhide thongs, and inspected again—bridles, reins, saddles, stirrups. The horses had heavy steel breastplates, and these were burnished. Every man’s knapsack was filled with his issue of emergency rations, gunpowder, bullets. With so much at stake, proper preparation was essential. As the men worked day by day, after Christmas, and into the New Year, they came to love their weapons and equipment. They worked as absorbed as children in ritual play. Their common purpose, their similar tasks, the buried excitement of awaiting danger, made them happy in a way that they could never expose. They were soldiers getting ready for a soldier’s job.
By order of the Governor all men went to confession and communion before leaving with the army—all but one, “who, despite the urgings of his commander, would have nothing to do with the holy sacraments.” He was called “an abandoned wretch.”
On the morning of January 12, 1599, the army against Ácorna left the capital on the river. It took nine or ten days to reach Ácoma. On arriving, Vicente de Zaldívar was under orders to call upon the Ácomese for peace and submission. If these were denied, he was to attack. It would take nine or ten days for news to come back to the river after that. The Governor and the colony could only wait, hope and pray as January passed.
On the night of the twenty-first while the Governor was in his quarters at San Juan disturbances broke out among the Indians in the twin pueblo over the river. Sentries reported hostile announcements. Defiant reports came of how all the pueblos of the river country were marching in arms to destroy the Spanish colony. The Governor personally took charge of doubling the sentinels on guard, with a captain at each of the four gates to San Juan. Fires were lighted to see by. It was a cold night. The army must have
