River of Darkness Read online

  † Francisco Martín was a uterine brother, sharing the same mother but a different father.

  * Although Francisco Orellana’s name is not associated with records of these men and the events at Cajamarca, he may in fact have been there. The number 168 is typically cited, and this includes Francisco Pizarro.

  * A royal tax of one-fifth, levied on all profits made by subjects of the Spanish crown in the New World.

  * An encomienda was a royal grant earned through meritorious military service, granting the right of the encomendero to use native inhabitants within regional boundaries as a labor force, with the stipulation that the encomendero protect the Indians and provide them with religious indoctrination.

  CHAPTER 2

  Birth of the Golden Dream

  GONZALO PIZARRO’S EXPLOITS FIGHTING THE Inca and battling Almagro were by now legendary, and his remuneration included the governorship of Quito and great tracts of land around it, much of it uncharted and unknown. In late 1540, not long after Gonzalo took up residence in Quito and assumed his mantle as governor, he began to hear stories swirling about, frenzied rumors that titillated his already gold-lusty imagination. Most tantalizing were repeated tales about a literal “golden man,” the Gilded One or El Dorado, an Indian king so fabulously wealthy that daily he charged his subjects with coating his naked body from head to toe with fine gold dust. At the end of each day he bathed in a lake, lining its bottom with gold. Other chiefs, his ancestors, so the story went, had performed the ritual dusting and bathing for untold generations. But where were this king and this lake? Spaniards returning from forays to the north, toward Bogotá, claimed it was there. Others speculated that the man of gold and his riches lived over the mountains and to the east, in the smoldering Oriente, a humid and hostile region lying east of the Andes that the Spaniards had yet to fully explore.

  Coinciding with all the talk of gold were tales of another coveted commodity, cinnamon. Since Francisco Pizarro’s first arrival, he had observed that the Incas used in their cuisine a kind of cinnamon said to be acquired from remote tribes dwelling in the steamy forests to the east of the Andes. A countryman of the Pizarros named Gonzalo Díaz de Pineda had recently returned from a venture over the high Andes, where he claimed to have descended to a place called the Cinnamon Valley (La Canela). There, however, a hostile tribe called the Quijos soon repelled him, but not before he discovered from some captives that beyond the Cinnamon Valley there existed a limitless level land peopled with tribes clad in golden ornamentation and jewelry.

  The gold rumors in Quito in 1540 became a central catalyst in what would ultimately be among the great chimeras in history—the quest for El Dorado. A number of precedents converged to create the idea—some would call it a myth—and these precursors excited passion and gold greed that took hold of Francisco Orellana and Gonzalo Pizarro as they settled in to their respective governorships.

  The first quest was undertaken by Diego de Ordaz, one of the most important captains who had served under Cortés in the conquest of Mexico. His exploits included a heroic climb to the summit of the erupting 18,000-foot volcano Popocatépetl, a climb that impressed King Charles enough to later grant Ordaz a commission to explore and potentially settle as governor the region of eastern South America between the mouth of the Amazon and the Orinoco River.

  The mouth of the Amazon itself had been discovered in 1500 by the Spaniard Vicente Yáñez Pinzón, former captain of Columbus’s caravel Niña, who noticed with great interest that drinkable freshwater had flowed more than a hundred miles out into the salty sea. Attesting to this remarkable phenomenon, he named the river Rio Santa Maria de la Mar Dulce—later shortened to Mar Dulce,* or “sweet sea.” By the year 1513 the river was being referred to as the Maranon. He sailed up it a few days’ distance, about fifty miles, but by the time Ordaz arrived thirty-one years later, the Amazon remained entirely unexplored by Europeans. Ordaz had become confident that a wealth of gold was there to be discovered, somewhere at the headwaters of a large river, possibly either the Amazon or the Orinoco.

  Diego de Ordaz assembled an impressive force for his foray to the Amazon: about 600 men and 36 horses on four ships, including a large flagship and three smaller caravels. In early 1531 they arrived to the north of the mouth of the Amazon, a massive tangle of estuaries nearly two hundred miles wide. During reconnaissance into these estuaries he encountered natives proudly displaying “emeralds as big as a man’s fist.” The Indians told him, “On going up a certain number of suns [a few days] to the west, he would find a large rock of green stone.” Further investigation of these supposed emeralds, which were actually more likely jade, was thwarted by a squall, and rough seas and heavy storms buffeted his armada, ultimately sinking the smaller ships, on which many men were lost. As a result, a rumor began—and persisted for many years—that some of Ordaz’s men survived the shipwreck and were living among Amazonian tribes somewhere upriver—no one knew exactly where. Ordaz regrouped but decided to abandon any hope of sailing up the Amazon itself, opting instead to travel northwest for a month and a half, along the coastline toward the Orinoco. Ordaz landed on the island of Trinidad, where he recuperated, stocked the holds with fresh water and grazed the horses, then landed on the mainland across the Gulf of Paria.

  Ordaz, three hundred of his remaining men, and all his horses ascended the Orinoco for hundreds of arduous miles, heaving, rowing, and dragging their boats upriver, cutting through the llanos, stark plains and savannas and parched, dusty tablelands. They finally came to the confluence of another great river, the Meta, and here were faced with a choice. Indian guides advised Ordaz and his party to take the Meta toward the west, where he would find a civilized, populous nation ruled by “a very powerful prince with one eye,” and rich in gold. But eyeing the Meta, Ordaz was dubious; it was rough and shallow, and they would be forced to abandon the boats and proceed on foot.

  Another guide pointed south, back up the Orinoco, and began making furious slapping and crashing sounds, and gesticulating with his hands, imitating water hammering down onto rocks. The Spaniards optimistically (and erroneously) interpreted this pantomime to represent goldsmiths hammering away at precious metals, and that was all Ordaz needed to continue his quest up the Orinoco. But in just sixty miles they learned the grim reality of the guide’s sign language: they arrived at the violent cascades or rapids of Atures, a violent and impassable defile of rushing white water and falls thundering over rocks, where their boats would be crushed.* The guides now reiterated what they had been trying to explain, that the headwaters that Ordaz sought could be reached only by a foot march up the Meta. Ordaz turned his back on his dream for the moment, resolving to return for an overland attempt for this land of the Meta later, with proper equipment and provisions.

  The descent began smoothly, the men relieved to be going downstream for once, but they were soon attacked by Caribs (a rival tribe to the Arawak) wielding bows and arrows. Ordaz dispatched his cavalry to counter the attack, and the sight of charging warhorses clad in armor—the first such animals these tribesmen had ever witnessed—sent them scattering in all directions. Ordaz managed to capture and interrogate a few, inquiring particularly whether there was any gold in the area. He showed the prisoner a gold ring to illustrate what they sought. The Indian responded: “He said that there was much of that metal behind a mountain range that rose on the left bank of the river. There were very many Indians and their ruler was a very valiant one-eyed Indian: if they sought him they could fill their boats with that metal.” They also spoke of four-legged animals, describing them as “less than stags, but fit for riding like the Spanish horses.” The Indians of course referred to the Andean llama, which Ordaz had heard about from Francisco Pizarro while at court in Spain a few years earlier.

  Diego de Ordaz’s mind must have been dizzy with the prospect of finally conquering his own empire, just as his countrymen Cortés and Pizarro had done. Why should the one-eyed ruler of the Meta, who could fill a boat with gold, no
t be his Montezuma, his Atahualpa?

  When Ordaz finally reached the mouth of the Orinoco and the soothing waters of the Caribbean at the Gulf of Paria, he grew single-minded in his quest to return to the headwaters of the Meta, to the land of gold. He needed to return first to Spain, where he hoped to gain an extension on his license to explore and conquer, and to enlist more men and equipment. But the Orinoco had taken a fatal toll on Ordaz, who was harboring an illness contracted somewhere on the river. On his return trip to Spain, Diego de Ordaz died at sea. Afterward, a Spanish proverb surfaced, attributed in no small part to his expedition: “He who goes to the Orinoco,” the saying went, “either dies or comes back mad.”

  But his dream of discovering gold lived on, and foreboding proverb or not, that dream would lure others, including Francisco Orellana and Gonzalo Pizarro, to search for the one-eyed chieftain and his empire of gold.

  By late 1540 the myth and legend of El Dorado had reached fever pitch in Quito, fueled in part by other recent multiyear journeys to the north, in what is now Colombia. A well-bred and well-funded lawyer, Licentiate Gonzalo Jiménez de Quesada, set out in 1536 to explore the untracked Rio Grande (since named Magdalena) river to its source, hoping that it would wend its way to Quito and eventually the Pacific Ocean. After a few years of arduous journeying and great loss of men, Quesada had discovered the Muisca (Chibcha) lands (near present-day Bogotá) and people, an advanced civilization that possessed rock salt, emeralds, and finely wrought gold—including a bejeweled and gilded royal litter, very much like those used to carry both Montezuma and Atahualpa. The gold fashioned by Muisca metalsmiths was ornate, pounded into thin sheets and crafted with delicate intricacy and design. Quesada, too, had heard stories about the wealthy land of the Meta, and perhaps believed he had found it—though it was said then to lie farther to the east and to be on a plateau or open plain, less mountainous, perhaps in the wilderness beyond the mountains east of Quito.

  All of these tales piqued the adventurous interest of the young and ambitious Francisco Orellana. He then learned, to his great excitement, that Gonzalo Pizarro had organized an ambitious expedition in search of this El Dorado, this Land of Cinnamon. He heard that other competitors were also readying men and equipment for rival expeditions. On the eve of the New Year, 1541, Orellana sped to Quito to offer his services, funds, and men to Gonzalo and to accompany him on his endeavor. But he knew that he must hurry, and that there was no time to lose.

  * See José Toribio Medina, The Discovery of the Amazon, 154–55. The Brazilians call the Amazon the Rio Mar.

  * The Atures and the Maipures Falls proved so formidable, in fact, that they prevented Spanish conquistadors and explorers from entering the Upper Orinoco for more than two hundred more years, until 1744, when Jesuit missionary Father Manuel Roman skirted the falls and climbed upriver to the high Orinoco. See Marc de Civrieux, Watuna: An Orinoco Creation Cycle, 4–5.

  CHAPTER 3

  Into the Andes

  FRANCISCO ORELLANA’S MEETING WITH HIS COUSIN Gonzalo Pizarro in Quito was quick and efficient, for he arrived to find Pizarro already well along in his preparations for departure. Orellana expressed his deep interest in joining Pizarro’s expedition, even offering to pay his own expenses and to equip his own force, which suited Pizarro. In return, Pizarro made Captain Orellana lieutenant-general, his second-in-command, and their plan for departure was laid out: Pizarro would complete preparations here in Quito quickly and depart as soon as possible in order to get a head start on any rival expeditions, and Orellana would return to his jurisdictions of Guayaquil and Puerto Viejo to put in order these municipalities, enlist men, and purchase equipment and weaponry. He would then return to Quito, receive written instructions left for him, and follow Pizarro’s track over the mountains. The plan was to rendezvous at a place called the Valley of Sumaco, where Pizarro’s large army would camp and await his arrival.*

  Orellana departed in haste, and Pizarro continued assembling an impressive array of troops for the journey that lay ahead, a foray into the unknown that would one day be described as “the most laborious expedition that has been undertaken in these Indies.” By early February 1541, everything appeared in good order.

  Pizarro’s eagerness to depart was owing partly to his character—he was known for rash and even impetuous behavior—but also to political exigencies. He had at his command a good number of soldiers—numbering in the hundreds—who had been instrumental in aiding Gonzalo and his brothers in the recent civil wars with the Almagro faction, and an expedition of bold scope was one way to employ these idle mercenaries, as well as to reward them, potentially, for their efforts. He was also spurred on by the fact that no sooner had he assumed the governorship of Quito and begun his preparations than he learned that Gonzalo Díaz de Pineda, who had already made one failed attempt to La Canela—the Cinnamon Valley—was back in the city and equipping himself for another attempt, this time enlisting as many of the best soldiers and adventurers as he could find. This was hardly the kind of competition that Gonzalo Pizarro needed, so he immediately met with Pineda and made him an offer that he could not refuse: he granted him numerous encomiendas in the region, and, as a bonus, he made Pineda’s father-in-law a lieutenant of Quito—a position of significant power. For all this, Pineda had to agree to go with Pizarro, and under his direct command. Pizarro reasoned that, having been over the mountains once, Pineda would prove useful. Pineda agreed to the terms.

  Pizarro well understood the importance of trusted men-at-arms, so after placing Orellana second-in-command, he enlisted seasoned veterans of other campaigns to join him, including Antonio de Ribera, who would serve as campmaster, and Juan de Acosta as ensign-general. The force under Pizarro and his captains comprised “nobles of the highest ranks and leading citizens of the realm who, because of the personal prestige of the leader and the great notoriety given to the proposed new expedition of discovery, hastened to enlist under his banners.”

  The army totaled 220 soldiers (including harquebusiers, crossbowmen, and infantry); nearly 200 horses* armored and fitted for battle; great stores of ammunition and powder; a herd of some 2,000 to 3,000 stinking, snorting swine for consumption en route; highland llamas as pack animals; a snarling horde of nearly 2,000 war hounds, trained not only for battle and intimidation of hostile Indians, but also to herd the swine; and about 4,000 Indian porters, chained and shackled until the moment of departure to preclude escape. These unfortunates would bear the brunt of the expedition’s enormous loads, including tons of materials for buildings, bridges, or vessels, while the Spaniards “carried nothing but a sword and a shield, and a small sack of food beneath it.” Among the 4,000 porters were a good many native women brought to cook tortillas for the Spaniards and to serve as sex slaves.

  On one of the last days of February 1541, Gonzalo Pizarro’s bizarre assemblage of nobleman, slave, and animal lurched out of the high, steep city of Quito, over 9,000 feet above sea level, and headed even higher, toward the cloud forests and the Andes Cordillera. Gonzalo Pizarro rode at the front of the main force, proud and upright and confident in his bearing, his compact, war-hardened frame made for the saddle. Antonio de Ribera led the vanguard. They clomped and hoofed up thin tracks on the outskirts of Quito, following human and llama trails that thinned, then diminished almost completely as they entered the misty and sodden cloud forest. They trekked through densely tangled bamboo clusters that slowed progress to a near halt, the sharp thorns tearing at their sleeves and skin. The long train wended through and around thick stands of tree ferns, some arching seventy feet into the vaporous air, and beneath towering Podocarpus trees—ancient relatives of pines. After great difficulty they reached the flinty páramos, the high Andean valleys that provided somewhat less onerous passages through the mountain range. They were headed for the province of Quijos, a region encompassing the valleys to the northeast of Quito, the most likely location, Pizarro reckoned, of La Canela and El Dorado’s kingdom of gold. Though they had begun at the
equator, soon they had climbed high enough to see their breath in plumes, and beyond, the forbidding domes of snow-covered, active volcanoes.

  As they left the cloud forest and climbed higher, the footing grew slick and mossy, the ground was dotted with prickly puya plants, and the temperatures began to plunge further. The native porters, who had begun the forced march nearly naked, shivered in hypothermic agony in the frigid heights. The Spaniards fared better in their thick cotton armor, but the cavalry was forced to dismount and lead the horses up the steep and roadless ravines. Gone were the Inca roads they had grown accustomed to in the lowlands, roads that, though designed for llamas and often difficult for the horses, were paved with stone and included well-planned steps and rest houses every few miles. High up in the páramo the ground was trackless, desolate, and bare. Nor did Gonzalo Pizarro and his men have any knowledge whatsoever of the uncharted lands that lay beyond where Pineda had been.

  When they eventually reached the province of Quijos, scouts reported that large numbers of hostile Indians were massing and preparing to attack, and Pizarro brought up his troops in tighter ranks. The Indians, apparently intimidated by the large number of armored troops and their horses, withdrew, disappearing into the forest like phantoms.

  The ill-clad porters’ physical sufferings continued, magnified by emotional and spiritual anguish when, as the entourage was crossing a particularly steep ravine, they were racked by the great roar of an erupting volcano, Antisana to the south, accompanied by an earthquake that roiled the earth underfoot. Although eruptions of great magnitude were common, they were bad omens, and the freezing, naked lowlanders huddled in fear, some attempting to flee. The eruptions and aftershocks sent the Spaniards rushing for cover inside some huts in an abandoned village, but their shelter proved temporary as the roofs caved in from the trembling earth, which rent fissures and caverns in the ground. The sky was charged with electricity, ripped by thunderbolts and lightning. The expedition had traveled less than thirty miles outside Quito, and already more than a hundred Indians had perished from the elements. Others had managed to escape in the night, fleeing down the mountainsides for their homes in the more temperate climes of the equatorial lowlands.