House At The Hole In The Sky - Ch 4

Chapter 4



Santa Cruz de la Sierra

1793

Mitu tuberosa

35 inches.  Bill red, narrow, compressed; culmen elevated, arched, and swollen above nostrils.  Shiny blue black; crest flat but erectile; belly and under tail coverts light chestnut.  Tail feathers black, tipped white.  Legs red.  Amazonian forest.

Who’s Napoleon?

Greatly intrigued, Governor Juan Bartolomé Verdugo turned from the wide sash window of the drawing room overlooking the main plaza of Santa Cruz with the note from the dispatch in his left hand.

Napoleon Buonaparte sir, replied Barrios.

Barrios had brought in the latest monthly mail and dispatches from Buenos Aires that morning in the heavy wooden box that lay open on the table.  Small and wiry and contrasting almost comically with Verdugo’s overly-tall frame whenever the two stood close together, as now, he was always a useful person to have on hand at such times as he seemed to know everything that went on in the distant world of Europe before the heavy envelopes were even opened.

The Commander of the French forces in Sardinia, added Barrios, knowing the recently arrived message from Buenos Aires to be vague to the point of confusing in the matter of Napoleon’s identity.

Verdugo studied the red envelope of the official intelligence dispatch, noting from the date that it must have only just made it onto the departing ship in port.  Perhaps it had even been sent directly to the Canary Islands on a fast clipper and transferred to the Audiencia of Buenos Aires despatch bag there.  In these modern times, thanks to recent developments in topsail deployment, not only had communication between Spain and her Southern dependencies been cut to under a month, there was now the very real possibility that war in Europe could cross the Atlantic.  For this reason, centres of government in the Audiencia now received summaries of all official intelligence briefings.

Whatever its route to his hands, the note he was now holding was the most up to date information he would have for some time to come concerning events in Europe and so he had naturally opened it first.  It wasn’t every month that a red envelope arrived and each time he saw one in the dispatch box it sent a childish thrill through the Governor’s body.

This one was principally a report of troop French movements, recorded by various observers posted around the Mediterranean coast, then quicky collated in Seville, Cadiz, or Palos, before being rushed to the docks, the Governor imagined, to catch the sailing tide.  On a separate sheet a careful hand had noted the following information: February first, 1793, Rep. France declares war on England and Holland.  Spain, as member of Coalition against F., expects imminent hostile French activity.

The name of Buonaparte was included on one line of intelligence which read, Cap d’Agde sixteen French troop ships with Napoleon on board to arrive French south coast.  Toulon?



French?  the Governor queried his all-knowing secretary.  But haven’t they just had a revolution?  How can they be invading the rest of Europe so soon?

That was four years ago sir.  They have had plenty of time to reorganize since then.  Under the new regime, sir.

Yes, new regime.  Let me see if I have this straight, Barrios.

Sir?  The Governor stood pondering a moment, staring out the window at the slowly swaying bare branches before a leaden sky.

We were allied with the French and against the British during the American wars, until the Treaty of Versailles, how long ago was that?

Ten years almost, sir, when the British finally conceded defeat and recognized the independence of the American States.

Yes, alright.  It seems like only yesterday.  And now, after the French have a Revolution, we’re on the side of the British?

That’s correct sir.  In alliance with Britain, and the Crowns of Austria, the Netherlands, Prussia and the Piedmontese.

Against France?

Yes, sir.

Verdugo shook his head.

So why is this Napoleon attacking his own country?  Toulon is in France, isn’t it?

Barrios nodded.  Toulon was taken by the Royalists some months ago, sir, who have the support of the British.  And, Sir?

Well, Barrios?

Napoleon is Italian, Corsican by birth, sir.

Well, all this sounds like something fairly serious.  But if they are up against the rest of Europe, we can expect France’s expansionist hopes will soon be smothered, don’t you think?

Barrios nodded silently.  He could see from his distracted air that the Governor was about to have one of his moments and at these times, he knew, it was best to disturb him as little as possible.

For the Governor, current events in Europe were puzzling but not altogether unexpected.  Taking the broad view, with what little information filtered down here so far away in the middle of the Southern continent, it was clear that great changes were taking place not just in Europe but throughout the world.  They were vast, nation-building changes, changes that would mark the political landscape for years, maybe even centuries, to come.

And yet something nagged at Verdugo’s mind.  This aggression on the part of France seemed to herald some new direction, some upcoming radical transformation of the political landscape in Europe that, he felt, would one day have serious implications far beyond the home continent.

Today the first cold snap of the year had arrived in the normally torrid town and a wintry drizzle began to spatter on the window.  Perhaps because it came up from the plaza mixed in with a faint smell of wet leather it reminded Verdugo of a conversation he had had as a young man of seventeen on his first expedition with his uncle as they accompanied an infantry relief detachment up to the Itenez River on the northern frontier.



Juan, the old statesman had said to him quietly on one of the first rainy afternoons on the trail as they rode out of San Javier, we live so far from the main centre of events, how can we ever find out what’s going on in the rest of the world?

Knowing from his tone that his uncle was about impart information he felt was both important and confidential, the fresh-faced Verdugo reigned in his horse and rode closer to the older man’s grey mare.

The mail takes months to get here from Spain you know, via Lima, four, five months at least, he started, his voice harsh and rough from the habit of smoking raw tobacco rolled in dry maize husks.

Drops of rain dripped from their wide-brimmed hats and smoke curled up past his uncle’s moustaches.  By the time we read of events in Europe, they’re already ancient history.

Juan nodded.  The idea was taking the young Verdugo somewhat by surprise.  He realized he hadn’t really thought about communications in this light till now, imagining the edicts of the King of Spain to be somehow instantaneously transmitted round the globe by way of the heavy dispatch envelopes he had seen in his uncle’s study in Santa Cruz.

Huh, my boy?  When we read that Spain’s at war with England, the fighting’s probably already over, what!  The old man’s laugh turned to a phlegmy cough.  He spat heavily before continuing.

But we can get an idea, a good idea of what’s happening, you know how?  Trust this.  He beat his chest through his waterproofed rubber poncho with a huge meaty hand.  And you’ll not go far wrong.  Take in all the information you have and let it ferment here.  You’ll find that what comes out and makes it up to your head is generally not far from the truth.  You have to anticipate, Juan.  That’s the word, anticipate.  Trust your feelings and you’ll find you come out on top, ahead of the rest.

A few minutes later Don Alonso had halted the march at a clearing in the forest and gave the order to make camp.  The thirty foot soldiers groaned with relief as they heaved off their sodden packs and a detachment unloaded the unweildy canvas shelter from one of the oxcarts.

Still mounted, Don Alonso continued, pointing a finger at Juan’s heart.  In a skirmish, when you see a man go down, you go down too.  You don’t wait till you hear the shot, you understand?  You get down fast and then you have time to look about you.  If you act fast you have more time to think about what to do next.

Juan nodded again, knowing his uncle had noticed his nervousness at the mention of gunfire and battle.

You have to do it in politics as well, my boy.  Beat them at their own game.  Act first and act fast, that’s my motto.  And act with a good conscience, what do you say to that, huh?  The old Governor had slapped him on the shoulder so hard then the young Verdugo almost fell from his horse.



The day before that conversation, the memory of it coming now to Verdugo as if it were yesterday, it must have been about the third day out of Santa Cruz, a tapir had rushed out of the forest beside the main convoy as they passed through a heavily wooded stretch of road, taking him and many of the recruits by surprise.  By the time the first of them had  unshouldered their muskets the animal was stumbling hopelessly on the road and soon fell to its knees right next to him.  The animal rolled over dead and revealed three arrows in its side.  They had been the long Chapacura arrows.  Juan guessed that at the moment the animal had made its blundering appearance the tall Indians must have been over fifty yards up the road.  Heaven help any Portuguese mamelukes that try to ambush this detachment, he thought.

They had eaten well that night and left a generous portion of meat with the Jesuit Padres of San Javier after passing through the mission the following afternoon.

Verdugo remembered how he had again watched the Indian escort on the rainy afternoon in camp, the following day.  The four Chapacura and six Moré guides, as they rose from where they had been squatting between the roots of a big fig tree awaiting the convoy,  were preparing themselves to hunt meat for the evening’s cooking pot.

The Chapacura were tall, quiet, sharp-featured and, his uncle had said, the most feared warriors in the Audiencia.  They silently removed their coarse white tipoy tunics and Juan, embarrased by their nakedness but not turning away, saw for the first time the blue and red body paint on arms and legs that marked them out as Chapacura warriors.  They wore grey and white eagle feathers in their hair.

The shorter, broader faced Moré scouts kept on their standard mission white linen shirt and breeches to hunt and were talking and laughing together as they wandered over to collect their short bows and arrows from the oxcart.  The Chapacura had not stowed their two-metre long bows and bundles of arrows since starting on the trail and now, advancing into the wall of trees, each man held them at the ready, one arrow loosely in the draw.

Just then, a heavy flapping had sounded above the oxcarts and a pair of curassows flew in, settling on a branch over the trail.  Looking up, everyone in camp stood motionless, thanking their luck.  Dinner would be early tonight, too.

But none of the Moré, standing almost directly below the birds, yet had their bows out.  Three of them had stopped, like boys caught with their hands in the apple barrel, about to dig around in the canvas for their bows, knowing that any movement now on their part would flush the big birds before they could get off a shot.  The four Chapacura, hearing the sound and turning as one towards it in a slow motion ballet, could not see the birds because of a particularly thick mass of overhanging trees that happened to be blocking their view.

Juan stood motionless beside his horse holding the reins, moving only his eyes to look at his uncle who met his gaze and raised his eyebrows, saying silently, watch this!

How would the impasse be met?  Juan, moving his eyes back to the oxcart, heard more birds flying in through the tops of the trees.

They must be camping under a roosting place, or the birds were coming to eat at some fruiting tree, he thought.  Whatever had brought them here, he could not imagine how anyone could shoot more than one of them without scaring the rest away.

Then he saw one of the Moré had turned ever so slowly to face the Chapacuras and was now making tiny gestures to them with his right hand.  The arrows on the taught bowstrings turned slowly upwards and, how did they do that with one hand, Juan wondered, other blunt, round-ended bird arrows flicked down and replaced them.  The Moré was gesturing again, rapidly, nodding and pointing upwards with his lips.

Juan was certain, and a few minutes later he would walk over to check he was right, that from where they were standing the Chapacura had no way of seeing any of the big turkey-like birds that seemed to be settling down for the afternoon on their horizontal branch above the oxcarts.  The Chapacura lifted their bows as one.  Firing blind through wide leaves, four arrows flew in perfect synchrony, each hitting its target of head or neck and bouncing off, allowing the lifeless bodies to fall down through the branches without snagging.

Juan whistled and, turning to his uncle said, incredible!  The Morés hurried to catch the black-feathered bundles as they fell around them.

Not only had they hit a hidden target, Juan realised, they had been directed to fire with pinpoint accuracy by an Indian of a different tribe using only hand signals.

As he strode excitedly up to where they had been standing to check for himself, the Chapacura turned their backs on him to collect their bird arrows before stalking off into the forest without even inspecting their kills.

Juan had to talk to someone about what he had just seen and his uncle’s open expression invited him over to the campfire that was just beginning to smoke under the canvas shelter.

Yes, yes.  They do things we find incredible.  They have a different way of doing things, he replied to Juan’s exclamations.  I’ve never seen an Indian that could read a map or a compass, but I’ve never seen an Indian get lost in the forest either.  They relate to the area around them in a different way than we do.  They live it, feel it, they know the forest as a living entity while we just walk through it without seeing the trees for the wood.

But the signalling, did you see it, uncle?  They shot with just hand signals - did the Moré use Chapacura signals?

Aah, my lad, didn’t you know?  There are many races of Indians, but only one hunting language.  They all understand it, it’s another part if the forest they carry inside them.

What!  Really?  They have the ability to communicate without sound with someone they’ve never met, from a tribe that speaks a different language?  That’s amazing!

Juan brought over his saddle and sat down on it beside the fire.  So many ideas came flooding into his mind.  If they could write it down, he reasoned, they’d have a universal language that could be used throughout the continent!



He’d never imagined half of what he had just seen and it changed his opinion of Indians for ever.  He realised that people in Santa Cruz who spoke deridingly of the backward natives of the bush were generally those who had spent little time away from the safety of their comfortable town houses and he began to share his uncle’s respect for these quiet men of the forest.  Verdugo determined at that moment to learn all he could about these curious and impressive peoples with whom he shared his country.

We are very fortunate to have the Chapacura in our detachment, said Don Alonso rolling another cheroot and lighting it in the fire.  As far as I know they are the only ones of their tribe who walk with the Royal Army.  Now you see why I pay them twice the wages the recruits get.  Sssh, the man's yellowed finger went to his lips.  Don't tell!

Juan smiled and gladly accepted a steaming cup of coffee from the orderly.



France.  Verdugo let the information ruminate inside him a while longer as he continued to allow his mind to wander.



Don Alonso had only gone as far as the first barraca on the Itenez with his nephew before presenting him to the General and heading back for Santa Cruz with the retiring detachment.  Verdugo was to stay under the eye of General Aymerich for an initial period of three months.  If he was doing well at that time he would receive orders as captain of the cavalry regiment.

As it happened, he had taken to the rough life in the forest and had stayed for a year before taking the long road back to Santa Cruz.  The cavalry suited him well because, as horses could not be taken into the thickest forest where most of the actual skirmishes took place, his detachment was used mainly to accompany convoys along roads and for relaying messages between the outlying missions and forts of the region.

Verdugo enjoyed the freedom but, more than that, he was working towards an appreciation of his world with an unusual intensity and compassion that would soon mark him out for a destiny far removed from that of a provincial cavalry commander and land him, six years later, in Valladolid at the court of the King of Spain.



He suddenly had a strong feeling that the current alliance in Europe would hold out no more than a few months at best.  Spain and Britain were odd bedfellows and would soon be at each others’ throats, if not directly because of events in Europe, then over some distant and useless piece of land claimed by both as Crown territory.  There were simply too many potential disputes to allow these two nations, which had been at war with each other for the better part of three centuries or more, to stay long on the same side.

France, on the other hand, Verdugo felt, if she could find a strong military leader, would quickly profit from her neighbours’ weaknesses and petty infighting and might well soon become the new force in Europe.  There was something fresh and vigorous about the new Republic, along with the fact that France had relatively few troops posted on scattered islands and territories compared with Britain, Portugal and Spain’s huge dependencies, that concentrated her energies and indicated to Verdugo that her time was at hand.

The cold rain continued to run down the panes and muddy the streets, withering the pink toborochi flowers that fell and littered the square like so many women’s handkerchieves.  He would ask Barrios to get Maria to light the fire in his study so he could retire comfortably after lunch, read the letter from his mother, and have some time to think about this new situation.

The Governor came to from his reverie and saw Barrios standing patiently in front of him, awaiting an answer of some kind, perhaps.



Studying the thick, squat trunks of the toborochis again through the drizzle something slipped into place and made perfect sense.

Yes, that’s it!

Barrios turned and said, sir?

Don’t you see, it’s a movement away from divine rule!  These revolutions are against the monarchies of the Papal Empire; human freewill is taking over, finally!

Barrios looked confused.  Sir?

The Americans took all that land from the British and then claimed a government of the people - they don’t have a king, do they, in America?

No sir.

And in France, Louis XVI has just been executed, we read the other week, Barrios nodded, and so another monarchy is overthrown and replaced by a republic.  A republic, Barrios, see the point?

The secretary had no idea where his Governor’s thoughts had been over the last ten minutes, but he would of course strive to do everything in his power to clarify the situation as it presented itself.

How’s your English history, Barrios?

Sir?

Well, what I’m thinking, Barrios, they had a revolution as well, didn’t they, the English, what is it, about a hundred years ago now?

Yes, sir.

What happened, I mean politically, after that?  I know they’ve still got that madman George on the throne but, as I understand it, the basis of government was changed after their revolution and now the monarch is answerable to the British parliament?

Quite right, sir.  And for a time after the Revolution the English had no king.  The Interregnum, it was called, I believe.  But the parliamentarians could not control the army.  They and the people demanded rule under a king, but Parliament would not ordain a Catholic king.

Verdugo admired the way Barrios could so easily slip into this manner of speaking as if reading from a textbook.  He smiled and let him continue.

The new parliamentary system broke down after Cromwell died but representatives coming down from Scotland finally urged the assembly to convene to find a solution and prevent total anarchy.  The two houses elected to restore the monarchy, at which Charles II stepped forward from exile in France.

Exactly, Barrios.  That was a very English solution to the problem, a problem I don’t think you’ve yet appreciated.  It’s this: Parliament elected to restore the monarchy.  Parliament!  The Governor touched his forehead.  Thoughts were coming fast.

And Charles II was also almost killed, don’t forget, for dallying with the French and the Catholics.  A few years later, Barrios, if I remember correctly, the English parliament deposed King James II, who had succeeded him to the throne against their wishes, because he was also too well disposed to the Mother Church.  They kicked him out and invited the Dutch William to rule in his place.

That was the situation, I believe, sir.

The whole struggle, he saw it now, was between the kingdoms under the control of the Pope and, he didn’t know how to put it exactly, between the Church, and this new way of ordering things, the new independent Republican State.  The People!  That was it, people now ruled instead of kings under the universal rule of the Church.

Don’t you see, Barrios?  In breaking ties with the Holy Roman Empire they, like Luther and those Germans, effectively said, we don’t believe that God’s will is represented by the person of the Pope in some distant land.  A collection of ordinary people, Barrios, Lords and whatever they have over there in England, but those people, in forming a parliament that was above the king and separate from Papal rule, they broke the bond, the covenant of divine rule, and started to take the governance of their country into their own hands!

Verdugo, triumphant in his thoughts, turned back to the window to let his mind catch up.

In the struggle between the Holy Roman Empire and the increasing number of countries to have rebelled against it, his intuition told him that the new victors would be the Republics.

Why?  They were simply stronger than monarchies somehow, because they involved the people.  They gave power to the people.  A republic got people from different backgrounds fighting side by side for themselves and not for some hereditary king or God as represented by a foreign Pope.

The Governor paused a moment, then spread his arms wide.  A great vista was opening before him as he said, look at the sequence Barrios; first the English established a parliament that robbed divine power from the king, then the American states separated from England with a declaration and a constitution of the people.  Now France.  It’s monumental!  A whole new world order is taking shape, right now, in our lifetimes.

He almost danced round the room for a short time, his knees making quite loud clicking sounds, before another thought came to him.

The question forming itself in Verdugo’s mind was, and what about Spain?

If, as he imagined, Republican France were soon to gain dominance in Europe, then Catholic Spain would be her first target.  And what would that mean for us, all the way down here in the Territories?

Verdugo sensed that great change would soon be arriving on his doorstep in the quiet backwaters of the Audiencia too.

Barrios was looking confused again when Haroldo the butler presented himself at the doorway.

Excuse me sir, but this has just arrived from the provinces.  He handed Barrios a note which the secretary duly passed over to the Governor.

The gentleman, one Pedro Siles, awaits downstairs for your instructions regarding the matter, sir.

Verdugo, still slightly out of breath, opened the note searching his mind for the name.  Siles, Siles?  Yes, of course, he was in charge of the crew scouting the new road through to the Moxos from San Javier.

Written on two sheets of plain paper in thick quill, the note read,



Esteemed Governor,

In performing our duties in the scouting of a transitable passage from the town of San Xavier of Chiquitos towards the settlement of San Pedro in the Moxos, we had advanced no more than five days in a northwesterly direction when we came on some houses in the native style, these by some low hills not two leagues from the San Miguel River.  The inhabitants thereof we were to learn by way of a fortunate instance, namely that one of our number, Joâo Santos, a black migrant from the Portuguese land of Brasil, has of natural tongue the Guarani language and when these natives, mainly women and children, came crying between themselves and making to run from the buildings, shouting and proclaiming that they were Christians as they saw our approach, they did so in a language so similar to this Guarani, that Joâo had but to speak out for them to arrest their haste and give ear to his petition, all in wonderment that one of such dark skin as was before them could converse with them so.

In this wise, and taking great outward care to show them we were a peaceable and courteous party, we conversed some length of time with them and especially with one who was taken by them as a leader and we did, in the manner the good Padre of San Xavier had instructed us before we set out on our venture in the event of coming upon the native peoples, offer to them some trinkets we had taken with us and which Padre Salvatierra had given over to us for this purpose, and also a number of knives at our disposal for such an encounter, which were taken by them with great show and were esteemed by their number as valuable and costly gifts and whereupon one of them did enter a dwelling and did appear bearing two caps of most bright and pleasing coloured feathers, together with some collars and beads made of the cusi palm.  These objects and ornaments we received courteously and the same articles were later most carefully packed and stored to await perusal at Yr. Excellency’s convenience.

These people are of those that call themselves Guarayo and were in the main of a most pleasant and hospitable disposition towards us and did repeat their desire to become Christians and for this reason I send word to Yr. Excellency that Yr. Excellency may discern the best procedure for this future undertaking and until such time we await Yr Excellency’s instructions in the town of San Javier.

Signed, P. Siles.



Juan Verdugo smiled broadly, then uttered a long satisfied sigh.

This Siles is downstairs, you say, Haroldo?

Sir.

Then show him to the kitchen and make sure he has a good meal.  I will be down to interview him presently.  Barrios, this is exceptional news, I must prepare to travel to San Javier at first light.  We have just made contact with the Guarayo nation and this time they have been located close to San Javier.  Didn’t I tell you we’d find them there?

Sir.



Getting up early next morning the Governor looked out of the window and saw to his great satisfaction that the weather had cleared.  The air would be cool for his journey to the mission and he would ride under bright and sunny skies.  He decided not to call his butler but dressed himself as he hummed a theme from a Bach chorale.

Putting on his leather riding breeches and searching under his bed for his boots, the Governor, still humming loudly, revelled in the momentous events of yesterday.

He felt certain that something of great import had been set in motion, something that would start to transform the wild lands past the last mission into a real province, one populated by free citizens under Spanish rule.

Only last year a number of Indians from this same elusive tribe had come out of the forest away in Moxos and, after speaking with the Padre in San Pedro, had met with Governor Miguel Zamora and the Baure Cacique Gabriel Ojeari in Concepción de Moxos.  They had subsequently agreed to establish themselves in Carmen de Guarayos which, Zamora had proudly informed him last time he had visited Santa Cruz, was now a thriving new mission.

So it was true, the Guarayo did want to come out of the forest and establish themselves.  The Governor’s mission would be even better than Zamora’s because he was coming up with a vision; with the help of the Guarayo, the two provinces would be linked together.  His road-scouting group had been working in the dark.  If the Guarayo they had just contacted could be befriended, his men would only have to follow on behind them marking the way to open up a road link between Moxos and Chiquitos.  Once the road went through, the Guarayo would be living on the main trading route, a profitable highway of commerce and communication between Chiquitos and Moxos.

The Guarayo would have schools, local representatives, they would plant crops and trade Guarayo cotton, cocoa and who knows what else.  He imagined himself riding into a pleasant open square, the townsfolk coming out joyously to greet him while traders, scientists and politicians would all pass through the new, well-ordered village on their way to Santa Cruz and think of him, who had made all this possible.  He even allowed himself to imagine that one day there might be a statue in his likeness on the plaza of Guarayos.  And the really great thing was that they had been found just northwest of San Javier, that is, in Chiquitos province, on the Governor’s home ground.  With the Jesuits gone, he would personally make sure that it all worked out and paved the way for development, communication, progress and, dare he think it? a new social order, a new life for the Guarayo based on freedom, equality and honest work.

The blank area on the Governor’s mental map that had always separated the provinces of Moxos and Chiquitos now had a boldly-written GUARAYOS across it.  He imagined a line connecting the two, his road, which, passing through San Javier and the port of Pailas on the Rio Grande, would then swing boldly westwards to connect with Santa Cruz and the world beyond.

In the kitchen he grabbed some loaves and cheese and, packing them and a bottle of wine in his bag, went to the stables where he found Barrios with Siles, loading the cart with the supplies the Governor had sent them out for yesterday afternoon.

Leaving orders for Siles to follow on directly, he set off at a quick trot, riding towards the early sun as it lit the spiky tops of the toborochi trees and made shadows on the red-tiled rooves of his own house and the whitewashed government buildings on the plaza.  Verdugo had started early because, for his plan to work, he needed to make a house-call.  He knew just the person who could help him win the confidence of the Guarayo.  It was time to call in a favour from an old friend.



In the years with the Third Cavalry Verdugo had occasion to go to most of the northern missions of Moxos.  Each time they planned an expedition or a troop movement, a letter had first to be written asking the Padre for permission for the Royal forces to pass through.  At the time Verdugo had found this official permission-seeking a humiliating and time-consuming formality, making him feel as if the Royal Army was an intrusion on its own land, rather than being the official protecting force, and supposedly on the same side as the Jesuit missions against the Portuguese.

In the light of yesterday’s discoveries, however, it all made sense.  He now saw how the Audiencia, outside of the main towns, had not really been under rule of the Spanish Crown at all, but had been under the control of these serious men in black, who themselves answered only to the Pope himself.

A move away from Papal rule – the thought hit him full on as he rode - that’s why the Jesuits had been expelled.  Amazing.  Could it really have started so long ago, without him realizing?

Outside of town, on the straight rutted track that would bring him first to Cotoca, then on to Puerto Pailas on the banks of the wide Rio Grande, he slowed Ayuma, his big bay mare, to an easy walk to give himself time to think more carefully.  So there had been three separate governances in the Audience; the towns, like Santa Cruz, Cotoca and faraway Cochabamba over the hills.  They would all have been completely isolated and at the mercy of the raiding parties of Portuguese and the Indians had it not been for the missions.  The Jesuits had formed a barrier round the towns and joined them together.  There was Buena Vista, the beautiful village on a gentle rise that overlooked Cerro Amboró, the rock sacred to the Chiriguano, nestling among the first low hills of the Andes on the way from Santa Cruz to Moxos.  In the other direction, towards the Brazilian border, San Javier itself led on to the Chiquitos Missions of Concepción, San Ignacio, San Miguel and San José.  While these settlements formed a protective ring around the Spanish towns, they had also been autonomous colonies within a sea of forest populated by the Indian tribes.  Three entities living in one land: one, the Spanish towns, two, the Jesuit missions and three, the surrounding forest and the Indians.  Now there were only two; the Spanish towns and the forest.

The Governor’s thoughts about the Jesuits had always left him in an uncomfortably divided state of mind which he had never been able to resolve.  On the one hand, since the Jesuits had been expelled, the job of containing the Indian population and the Portuguese raiders had increasingly stretched the armed forces to the limits.  Scattered though they were, the various tribes seemed to sense weak points in the army’s defences and pressed the weary troops ever harder in each outbreak of rebellion.  In the highlands the situation had become even worse, with organized factions rising up to call for the removal of Spanish governors from the Audiencia altogether.

Without the capable leadership of able military men like Seoane and Aymerich the constant uprisings would long ago have got completely out of control.  How much better in this respect had been the time of the Jesuits, who had somehow been able to lead the Indians on a passive and productive road to progress.  How had they managed it?  Seemingly by a sheer force of will on the part of the few well-trained and educated priests like Father Conti and Castellano in San Javier.

On the other hand, his experiences with Indians on the border campaign had quickly hardened him against the missions.  Although he respected the missionaries’ wonderful administrative abilities and knew how profitable their enterprises were, when he actually rode through San Javier that first time with his uncle and the regimient, he began to understand the plans the Jesuits had for the diverse forest peoples under their charge.

The problem was that their kind of spiritual education quickly robbed the Indians of their own skills and varied ways of being, while at the same time failing to introduce them into the real world outside.  The Indians were kept isolated in the missions like children, or some kind of productive draft animal, spinning cotton and tending fields, rather than being instructed in the political structure of the Audiencia and their relationship as free subjects to the Kingdom of Spain.

Now, after twenty five years without the Jesuits, Verdugo had seen how rapidly disorder had taken hold in the land; the missions were in some respects like a school where the pupils suddenly discover the teachers have all gone on leave.

Was there really no solution, no middle road?  Was there really no way for civil authorities to bring the Indians out of the forest and into the modern world, like the Jesuits had, but without killing them all in the process?



Verdugo saw his calling then in a flash.  He alone in the province had the will and the power to bring together these two separated entities.  His first success in this direction, he now felt with some certainty, would be to win over the feared and numerous Guarayo in the north of his own province.

It would need a name, of course, his new mission.  A name that would recognize the individuality of the Guarayo but at the same time announce their integration, their acceptance, into the wider sphere of state governance.  Pondering this for a few minutes and dismissing the first few eponymous ideas that welled up, the answer came to him - Santa Cruz; Santa Cruz de Guarayos.  Yes, it was perfect, reflecting both Guarayo nationhood, but at the same time leading on, as it were, to the big city and the great world outside.

Trying it out in his head, he said, I’m going to Santa Cruz, a few times, putting the stress in different places.  Excellent.  It worked both ways: if a young Guarayo boy said it to his mother, he would be saying, mummy, I want to get out, to know the world, I want to go further than this, our little patch of forest and find out what lies beyond.  If a trader or politician said it, then he would be saying, that place which is of the Guarayo but then again, intimately linked to the capital city of the province and all it stands for.

The Bach tune came back and the Governor hummed loudly as the sun climbed before him in the clear blue sky.

The tower of the church of Cotoca began to show between slim totai palms over the flat horizon.  No houses were yet in sight but the Governor knew the little hidden entranceway well enough, off to the left.  In a few more minutes, yes, there it was.  If he hadn’t been looking for it he would have missed it, almost lost as it was amongst the weeds and some thick-leaved tobacco plants that had grown up alongside the road.  He steered Ayuma off the dirt road and onto the overgrown path, where her flanks sloshed against knee-high grass stems.

There was no gate, just a couple of short mandarin trees to one side and some oranges almost engulfed in the long yellowed grass.  A patch of maize, again practically invisible within the tall growth, then the high vegetation finally opened out into a clearing.  More fruit trees, achachairuses, mangoes and cacao, clustered round a low adobe house and behind, taller trees cast a cool mid-morning shade onto the comfortable little building.

The patio was deserted.  Ayuma whinnied and some dogs started to bark.  A door banged and a short, dark, thickset man dressed only in dirty white breeches and a battered straw hat came round from the back.

Looking up, his dark scowl vanished and he lifted broad arms, exclaiming, No, I do not believe it, I just do not believe it!  Don Juan, Don Juan Bartolomé!  Good morning, what providence, what providence of the Lord!

As Verdugo dismounted, five or six small children appeared from round a corner and rushed up to him, girls and boys, all naked except the oldest girl, came running up and embraced his legs.  He patted their heads, laughing and offering them lumps of cheese from his bag.  They took it greedily and hung on to him all the more, the older girls jumping up trying to touch his beard.

Now, now, my little ones, this is the Governor of the Province!  Give him some air, stop that, Ipisé!  The man then spoke to them in Guarani and all but the two smallest children retired to the shade of the patio, sucking their cheese, their black eyes staring at the tall man with the horse.

So, what brings you here, my old friend? asked the other, practically prising the last two young ones from the Governor’s lower body and taking them up in his arms.

Pablo, Pablo Flores!  Good morning, I see you are still bringing Indians out of the forest!

Ah yes, I call them my little Guaycurus.  My little Guaycurus, aren’t you, huh?  Dangerous little Guaycurus they are, but you’re not going to club daddy to death in his sleep, are you?  No?

Laughing, he pinched the nose of one of the little boys he held in his fat, round arm, who responded by hugging him briefly then, let back down onto the ground, ran away back to the others.

At a sharp word from behind the house in Guarani the children, running and laughing again, all disappeared into the trees, followed by two scraggly dogs that had come round from the back to see the commotion.

The two men sat on a rough wooden bench on the shaded patio.  Flores patted Verdugo on the shoulder, the smile gone and his face again becoming drawn.

He looked down at his clasped hands, elbows on knees, and Verdugo saw him age ten years as his wide, broad face with its thick, bristling moustache, turned towards him.

You know, it is so sad, he said plainly.  The oldest one, he pointed to where the children were, off somewhere behind the thick clumps climbing a mango tree, they bought her to me just the other week.  She had been terribly... abused.  Eleven years old, Juan Bartolomé – just eleven years old, tell me that is not the work of the Devil?

Verdugo nodded as he watched Flores clenching his fat fists impotently, while at the same time he tried to accommodate his legs between the small rickety bench and the cut log that acted as a table.

Our Padre out in San Carlos, he is a good man.  You know him?  Verdugo smiled and nodded again, recalling the face of the kindly old Franciscan from the new mission past Buena Vista.  He paid a price for her, he paid money for her.  Said he could not bear to see her go with the others and those animals, those animals who take them and sell them to the Portuguese.

She is Yura, Yuracaré.  I don’t know how she learned to speak Guarani, maybe in the mission of Porongo, maybe if her mother was Chiriguano...  Who knows the lives, the sufferings of these little ones?  Flores sighed and looked back down to his hands.

But, he said, looking up again, you have some good news for me, no doubt?

About to answer, Verdugo looked up to accept a tin mug of coffee from a pregnant young woman in a tipoy who stood before him, keeping her eyes firmly to the ground as she placed his cup on the table.  He saw she had a tembeta in her lower lip and big, circular earrings.  Giving another cup to Flores, she said something to him quietly in Guarani.

Your horse would like some totai leaves, I expect?  She will cut some.

Yes, thank you.  Flores indicated to an old machete leaning up against the wall and the girl went off round the back again.  And that’s Clara.  You remember Clara, my first?

That’s Clara?  How she’s grown!  The Governor could not repress a smile as he realized what he’d said.  But then, it must be, what, two years?

Two?  You are the eternal optimist, Juan Bartolomé!  It was over three years ago we took the trail to Santiago and the eastern frontier together!  And that was when I found Clara, of course.  So beaten she was, hiding there beside the road, she almost couldn’t walk.  We took it in turns for her to ride with us, remember?  And she spoke a language no one could understand?  The two men laughed quietly at the memory and Verdugo tasted the strong, sour coffee.

Remember how she bandaged her own wounds by cutting up your best cape, without asking you?  To your credit, Juan Bartolomé, you were not angry with her for that, and you gave her the rest of it.  The Governor nodded.

She still has it, you know, she embroidered some flowers on it and uses it when the nights are cold.

Verdugo, smiling, saw the real goodness in the eyes of this man who had no wife but who took in orphans wherever he found them.  Such kindness was so rare these days, so rare.  And, of course, that was why he was here.

Now he just had to find a way of convincing Flores to leave his pleasant little house so close to Santa Cruz and start a new mission with him in the wilderness beyond San Javier.

But tell me of this good news you have brought, I just feel it is something special.  Flores’s eyes twinkled and he began to fan himself with his hat.

Verdugo explained how, a couple of weeks ago, he had sent a party to explore a way for a road through from San Javier to Moxos.  Flores gulped coffee from his mug, watching him all the while.

Then, yesterday, they brought news that they have found a Guarayo village, only five days from San Javier.

No!  Five days, but that cannot be more than twenty leagues!  This is wonderful news!  And you are going up to see this for yourself?

The Governor simply nodded, letting the pause mature before Flores spoke again.

You know, this old house, it is falling down, and I cannot even contend with the weeds in my own fields alone.  I would go with you, you know I would, Juan Bartolomé, but...

Yes?

Well, we have no way of going.  My old horse and cart, I had to sell them some months ago, so you see, we have no way to go with you.

But, Pablo, there is a cart following on behind me with all the supplies we will need.  Food, tools, seeds, cloth, everything!  You and your family can come on that and I will ride with you to San Javier.

No!  Flores stood up and grabbed up his hat from the table where he had just laid it.  When I woke up this morning I simply felt something good was going to happen today!  I even said to Clara.  A new start!  You are sent from heaven, I declare, Juan Bartolomé, from heaven!

I will tell Clara to round up the chickens, we can come back for the cows later.  No, better we take the cattle with us as well, don’t you think?  They are still all penned up from milking.

Flores rushed off to tell the boys to round up the cows onto the road and the Governor finished his coffee.  Flores returned a few minutes later, perspiring slightly.

Clara is getting some things together and making lunch.  The cart left the same time as you, I expect?  Good.  I will make sure one of my boys is out watching the road.  You will stay for lunch of course?

The Governor nodded and reached for the bottle of wine in his bag feeling well satisfied with his morning’s work.