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Veracruz, Mexico, 1574: Captain Juan Diaz, ship owner
The next morning, we set out at dawn, with Jorge driving his team of mules and Luisa on the seat beside him, for company. I rode behind their wagon, leading my pack horse and keeping a little distance so as not to swallow the dust churned up by their wheels. I believe now that I had a premonition of danger, but it was that nameless, shapeless kind of fear that arises from the haze of the early morning and is driven out by the first rays of the sun rising over the hilltops.
We hadn’t gone far on the road before we heard the crack of shots, the shouts of men, and the pounding of galloping hooves. Almost immediately we were caught up in a fray between a band of Indians and a troop of soldiers in hot pursuit. The Indians swarmed past us on the outside of the road, using us and our wagons as shields against the bullets fired by the soldiers. They wore grotesque coverings of hide and fur that gave them the appearance of being fox-headed and they yelled like crazed animals, to frighten off their pursuers, perhaps. Their shouts did frighten the mules pulling Jorge’s wagon. They shied and pulled sideways, so that the cart swayed dangerously. In the midst of this commotion, and before there was time to take any measures for our safety, one of the savages swooped down on Jorge’s wagon. In one fluid movement and with the skill of a circus acrobat, he leaned out of the saddle, locked a muscular arm around Luisa’s waist, wrenched her up, and carried her off on his horse. It was the work of a moment.
I let go of my pack horse and took off after the kidnapper. Jorge jumped down from the wagon, unhitched one of the mules, and took up the chase, but soon fell behind. Nothing could persuade the animal to increase its pace and do more than trot along. Nor could my horse match the pace of the Indian riders. The distance between us widened. Meanwhile, the troop of soldiers kept up the chase. I could see Luisa in the distance, struggling with her captor, her head appearing from time to time above his shoulder. As I galloped along, I silently prayed that she would not be caught in the crossfire between the raiders and the soldiers hunting them down, for they showed no concern for any loss of life and discharged their guns freely, aiming at the fleeing tribe. Soon one of the Indians fell out of the saddle, mortally wounded, while his horse dashed on. Another was captured together with his horse. The Indians had split into smaller parties to get away more easily, but the soldiers were closing in on the stragglers, those most heavily encumbered with booty. One of the pursuers managed to bring down the man carrying Luisa with a well-aimed shot. We saw his horse rear up and throw off the rider and his captive, then slow down and circle back to the two bodies on the ground.
When I came up to the scene and jumped off my horse, I saw Luisa lying half-buried under the Indian’s body and heard a moan, or rather a keening, which seemed to come from the corpse itself. It was an eerie, harrowing sound, such as I had sometimes heard at sea, when the wind played in the riggings. I thought of it as an evil omen and feared a bad ending. Some of the soldiers gathered around now and heaved off the body of the Indian. As we shifted the dead man’s weight and pulled Luisa out from under him, I was alarmed to see her covered in blood, which soaked the front of her dress and her hands, but as it turned out, it was the blood of her captor. Apart from bruises and abrasions, she was unhurt.
The soldier whose shot had brought down the Indian was already on the spot to secure the horse, his rightful booty and a considerable prize. But when we checked the body of the Indian, we saw that the soldier’s bullet had only grazed his shoulder. It was a knife that had inflicted the mortal blow. A slash across his stomach was still bleeding profusely. I shuddered at the sight of his guts protruding through the gash, while Luisa stood beside me in silence, her shoulder drooping as if deeply saddened, while the soldier shouted in triumph.
The dead man was naked except for a loincloth and hides covering his shins. His long hair, reaching down to his thighs, was streaked with red paint not unlike blood. His face and his robust body were painted red as well, in a pattern resembling a tattoo. His staring eyes were open but the light had gone out of them.
In the meantime, Jorge had also reached the spot, jumped off the mule, and put a protective arm around his wife. She leaned into her husband without looking up, keeping her eyes on the dead man as if transfixed by the sight. In her hand, almost invisible, was a small, stiletto-type knife. She released her grip on it only when Jorge loosened her fingers one by one and spoke soothing words to her as to a child until she slumped into him, burying her face in his shoulder.
The rest of the soldiers had ended the chase and had turned back as well, carrying the silver bars they had recovered and leading two wounded Indians by ropes knotted around their necks, like the nooses of a hangman. The law of war gave the man who captured an Indian the right to make him his slave and sell him on the open market. We were told that they fetched a good price in Mexico City. The soldier whose bullet had grazed the kidnapper was disappointed to see his man dead, but laid claim to his horse. Jorge in turn claimed the horse on Luisa’s behalf, because, he argued, it had been his wife who had killed the abductor. A dispute ensued, with the soldier countering that it was his shot that had stopped the horse.
“Let the woman state her claim,” he demanded, “and I will answer her.”
Luisa was hanging back, saying nothing.
“Perhaps you prefer fighting with a woman, but if you want the horse, you will have to deal with me,” Jorge answered.
He left no doubt that he was prepared to stand his ground, and I moved to his side, ready to do my part if needed. But the case was decided by the captain of the troop, who spoke with authority and declared that the law was on Luisa’s side. She had killed the Indian; therefore, his horse was her booty by right. The captain was in a hurry to get back to the road and make up for time lost. He was in no mood for negotiations. Thus, the soldier had no choice but to obey his superior’s command and conceded the bounty, grumbling. We brought the horse back to the road with us and tied it to Jorge’s wagon — the spoils of our “Indian War.”
Luisa took her seat beside Jorge again and, after a while, began crooning in a low voice, to console or calm herself, I believe. It was clear that she was troubled by having killed the man, unlike the soldiers, for whom death was all in a day’s work. I would have liked to say some comforting words to Luisa and perhaps also some words of esteem for her bravery, but Jorge thought it was best to leave her in peace.
I took my place again, riding behind the wagon. I could only admire Luisa’s courage and the presence of mind with which she had defended herself and overcome her captor. At the same time I thought, not for the first time, that she remained a closed book to me. Her mind was beyond my ken. Perhaps it was because I had spent so many years at sea, surrounded by men, and it was that kind of life that made me lose touch with the other half of humanity — women — but Luisa was more difficult to read than anyone I had ever encountered before. Jorge seemed to understand her, however, or rather, there was a deep, mutual understanding between the two of them, which I envied. Seeing them together made me feel my own loneliness and led me to wonder whether living close to my sister and her family would make a difference and turn me into a more gregarious man.
