XI

The Army of Cochabamba. The Fields of Amiraya

T he next day, everything took place just as Ventura had said it would, except for the part about Clarita’s pinch, for as we approached the grandparents’ house down a different path from the day before—so as to avoid the old house this time—his fiancée saw him just in time and ran to hide behind her grandmother, who was sitting at the door.

“Fiend! Scoundrel! Villain!” she yelled at him, alternatingly sticking her head out from behind the old woman’s shoulder and ducking back down again.

His response to these kind words was to throw the viscacha at her without altering his countenance, forgetting that Mariquita was first supposed to take part of it for us, as he had said when he had cut off its tail and put the animal in the saddlebags.

I should also note that only the grandmother was there to enjoy this new pleasantry with a somewhat forced laugh. Her husband, Venancio Fuentes, had left very early for Sipe Sipe, saying that it was very much understood, following the governor’s proclamation, that he was “more of a man than any of them.” And no one was able to convince him that he was already ninety years old, and that, furthermore, since he would be a gentleman on a donkey, he would not be able to charge at the enemy with a lance in his hand.

When we arrived at our small house—I say “our” because, as a poor orphan, I had begun to think of it as the home of my own family—we found the entire clearing in front filled with horses, most of them hacks used as workhorses, or nags as woolly as mine. Throughout, one could see crude lances stuck into the ground or leaning against the adobe walls and trees. The riders of the horses completely filled up the passageway, the main room, and the kitchen of the house. Commander «Don» Francisco Nina, with a larger and brighter lance than all the others—which still had attached to its end the plume with the red and yellow colors of Spain—was standing near the door, on a stone poyo that usually served as a step for women to mount horses on their own. With the seriousness of the most consummate of brigadiers, he was ordering his soldiers to record their names on a piece of paper, with the sacristan from Sipe Sipe, «Don Bartolito», serving as his secretary and chief of staff.

When he saw Ventura and I, his normally friendly, good-natured face all of a sudden contracted and was transformed in a frightful manner, much like Alejo’s—and I noticed at that point the resemblance between the two men’s faces. I delivered a long speech in the appropriate manner, but his anger only grew with each one of my words, until he finally struck the stones of the poyo with the end of his lance and exclaimed:

“I could pierce both of you with a single thrust of my lance! This is unbearable! Grandfather has already twisted his ankle when the donkey knocked him over—he’s inside, screaming in bed. . . . And now this other wretch comes back to follow me to «the war»!”

Ventura kneeled down at his feet and said to him:

“Take me, tata, or I will go and join the Porteños?

These simple words had a greater effect on him than all my previous rhetoric.

“May God bless us all!” he replied, and solemnly assented, dropping his head to his chest.

At about noon that day—it was the 13th of August of 1811—a large cloud of dust was seen in the direction of the Putina ravine. The army of our province was returning to the Valley of Cochabamba, leaving behind the useless positions it had occupied in the Arque and Tapacarí ravines.

“Mount your horses, men! Mount your horses!” Pancho yelled.

Everything was noise and confusion until finally, about a quarter of an hour later, the squadron had formed almost orderly out in the clearing. Pancho and his son mounted the beautiful horses I mentioned earlier, which they had undoubtedly kept ready and in excellent condition for this very occasion. After begging the father a thousand times and even shedding tears, I was allowed to follow them on the nag, led by an old Indian, tata Tuli, who rode bareback on the Vinchuca, with only a bridle, because the saddle was needed for the son. I and my new guide were to remove ourselves to a safe distance from them if there was any danger, far enough so that the bullets could not reach me.

As the last to head out on the road, I saw Mariquita standing at the door of the house. So as to honor the family in the presence of the patriots, she had put on her Sunday clothes, her sheepskin shoes, silver earrings, and a large silver pin—all of which were the “something really special” that her father had brought back for her from the city. She held her hands together on her chest, praying silently while two thick tears ran down her cheeks from her beautiful eyes, which were raised to the sky. Her mother must have had to stay inside to take care of the grandfather, who, although he could not put any weight on his foot, still insisted that he be given a lance and helped to mount his donkey in any manner whatsoever.

I remember hearing him yell, and more than once:

“I’m more of a man than any of them! Long live the homeland! Don’t they know that «Nicolás Flores» was my father-in-law?”

It must have been around one in the afternoon when the entire army of Cochabamba was finally gathered in the prairie of Sipe Sipe, near the Amiraya River, which is the continuation of the Rocha River, but augmented by the Sulti, Anocaraire, and Viloma Rivers, and by all the torrents of the valley, before it makes its way into the Putina ravine. It was already known that Goyeneche, with his army of eight thousand men, exalted after his victory at Huaqui, had climbed up from the surroundings of Tapacarí to the heights of the Tres Cruces and descended straight through the spur of the Royal Cordillera, which levels off in the Valley of Cochabamba near the aforementioned prairie. This was the same route later taken by General Pezuela,1 as we shall see later, and it will surely be the same route that any other general in a similar situation will take if he wishes to avoid the deep gorge of the Putina ravine, which, with its steep, rocky slopes, is as easy to guard as the unassailable Thermopylae.

I very much enjoy the writings of the Spanish historian Don Mariano Torrente about the Spanish American Revolution. He is a fanatic who always includes many charming details, and I also like the grandeur that he attributes to the patriots. He says: “The rebels’ army of twelve thousand men, most of which was mounted cavalry, with its front next to the Amiraya River and its rear in the tall mountains behind it [he is referring to the low sierra that runs across the valley and separates Sipe Sipe from Quillacollo], with heavy sections detailed in the town of Sipe Sipe, would have driven back any other army which had not learned by then to match its efforts and courage to the size of the obstacle before them.”2 Meanwhile our national writers, on the other hand, assure us that the number of rebel soldiers was half as many and also stress the inadequacies of the patriots’ weapons. Finally, a Chilean historian has even expressed his bizarre idea that there was no battle at all and that Goyeneche entered Cochabamba without any resistance.

From their opinions (the Spanish and the Bolivian ones only, that is, because the Chilean one is utterly foolish), I can now, as an eyewitness of all these events, solemnly clarify for my young readers that, as strange as it may sound—just like in Moliére’s Sganare/le3—both are correct.

There were, in effect, more than ten thousand men gathered there to defend the nascent homeland. But the number that, for all effects and purposes, could be counted as regular troops did not reach six thousand. And included among these were some six hundred men that Brigadier Don Eustaquio Díaz Vélez4 had brought from Chuquisaca, these being the only sections of the auxiliary army left after the defeat at Huaqui.

The infantry accounted for less than a quarter of the total number, and not all of it was armed with firearms, either. There was a long battalion with slings made of wound leather straps and the well-known macanas. The best armed had appalling rifles, and these were the kind with flintlock, of course. It was not unusual to see muskets and wide-mouthed blunderbusses that stood out among the files, disrupting their uniformity. And one column of about two hundred men, among whom I recognized Alejo, was quite proud of itself because of some very curious weapons of theirs, which had been recently conceived and built in the country with childlike naiveté and heroic determination. These deserve their own description and a corresponding explanation of how they were operated.

They called them cannons, but in reality they were more like harquebuses. Very white and shiny, as if they were made of silver, but actually made of tin, they were one and a quarter varas long, and thick-barreled so as to make them more stable; because of this very reason, however, they were of scant caliber, some two ounces or so. They had trunnions like regular cannons toward the middle; the vent was made of bronze; and at the back there was a very crudely built wooden butt. One person, exerting much effort, would lift the weapon up to his shoulder, where he had a small, but thick, sheepskin cushion on which to rest it; another would place a large, pitchfork-like tool in front to support the trunnions on the forked ends; and a third, who would light the fuse, was also in charge of carrying the ramrod and a jug of water to cool off the outside of the weapon after each shot. Other cannons were later invented, but it is not yet time for me to talk about them.

Half of the cavalry consisted of good troops, disciplined and trained in the previous campaign; they carried real lances and many sabers. One squadron had helmets and breastplates; two others had only breastplates. The other half of the cavalry resembled, in varying degrees, the first cavalry troop I saw back during the uprising of the 14th of September. This included the brand new squadron that the Commander Don Francisco Nina had just formed, the tail end of which was brought up by tata Tuli and I.

Finally, there were a few artillery men with one mortar and Un-zueta’s two infamous carronades. The latter were the topic of a specific remembrance by the historian Torrente because of their problematic, and hence disastrous service, at Aroma.

After recounting all these details, which are in fact the most important ones, I do not think I have the strength left to describe the outfits and the wide variety of uniforms worn by these soldiers. Suffice it to say that the most veteran among them came from a long campaign and a horrendous defeat, with their basic uniforms in shreds, and that the newest recruits had responded to their sacred obligation dressed, at best, in their Sunday clothes, without asking nor expecting to be given anything—their saddlebags were filled with the cold foods prepared by their wives or daughters, who had stayed behind, crying under the straw roofs of their ranchos. And yes, I will add that just as they were, as my imagination is able to paint them in my mind—and I regret that I am no Goya5 to reproduce them in an eternal painting—they seem to me a thousand times more beautiful and respectable than today’s soldiers, who dress in elegant, French-styled materials, who wear white gloves and false beards,* who break up congresses with the brute force of their weapons, who pitilessly murder the defenseless populace, who hand over Bolívar’s blood-stained medal to a back-stabbing idiot, who laugh at the laws, mock the constitution, betray the country and sell themselves. . . . No, I cannot go on! … Mercedes! I’m choking! …

As you can see, I have had to interrupt my story and scream out for my Merceditas. The anger was suffocating me. But I am calm again, and shall now continue.

That motley and ill-clad army had one sole emblem—of which my sweet, lifelong companion has just reminded me—shining brightly with her gold and silver, her pearls, and her other precious stones. It was the image of the patron Virgin of the city, worshipped at the Church of the Matriz ever since the founding of the city. Every year, the most illustrious ladies tended to give very luxurious lamé dresses and the most valuable jewels as offerings to her. She was now called “la Patriota,” because hers was the most majestic religious ceremony performed after the first “shout” for independence was heard. This is also why she had been brought to the battlefield.

She was on her platform, on the shoulders of four colossal vallunos,6 in the middle of the column of the harquebusiers that I described above. When I went to look at her, with my hat in my hands, I saw a group of women from the hamlets surrounding Suticollo, Amiraya, and Caramarca arriving before her. They flooded her with wildflowers that they had collected in their skirts, and said to her, in Quechua:

“Merciful mother, guiding light for those in distress, protect us and all the patriots with your beautiful cloak!”

I can only say a few words about the main leaders commanding the army, for I did not know very many of them by name.

Governor Rivero looked like he was over forty years old, very respectable, majestic even. A pure criollo, white and blond, he had light eyes, an aquiline nose, and a thick mustache that drooped down over his Spanish-style mutton chops. He wore a gallooned tricorn and a red silk poncho draped over his shoulders, revealing below it his blue, embroidered jacket and the baldric that I well knew, for it had been made by my mother’s hands. He also wore tall riding boots with silver spurs, and his horse, which he rode very skillfully, was one of those beautiful dapple-gray horses from the Andalusian race that Goyeneche later destroyed and that has only recently, with much difficulty, been brought back.

I saw Don Eustaquio Díaz Vêlez for the first time when he passed quickly in front of me, and I later learned his name and post from Ventura, when the troops cheered him on. He seemed shorter and portlier than the governor. He had very intense, bright eyes, his face was darkened from the sun and the elements, and his beard was thick and full. His military uniform was worn out and discolored, and he commanded—like only an Argentine can command—a gorgeous, sorrel-colored colt with a waving mane worthy of a lion.

And from a distance I was able to distinguish Don Esteban Arze, the delegate representing the troops from Cliza, in front of his gigantic vallunos, as well as Guzmán Quitón, who was leading the new regiment that he had formed in the country, as I stated earlier, in the absence of the governor.

As soon as the troops were in their columns, Rivero and Díaz Vêlez proceeded to examine the rank and file and then address them. From where I was, I could only hear the “hurrahs” with which they were greeted. I believe I only heard the name of Fernando VII invoked once, and that the response to it was much less raucous than the cheering at the mention of the Junta of Buenos Aires, of our province, and, above all, of the magical name of our homeland, which, although not yet widely known, was already the main yearning desire of all my plain and simple compatriots.

Just when the most enthusiastic “hurrahs” were heard throughout the field, a group of men on horseback appeared on top of the hill coming from the direction of Sipe Sipe. The man in front waved a white and red flag, which had probably just recently been put together. A moment later, a column of smoke was seen, on the same hillside, from a fire that one of them had lit.

This must have been the party assigned to be the lookout, for immediately the generals shouted out their urgent orders, and everything became a coming and going of mounted officers riding across the entire field. The infantry, with the exception of the column of harquebusiers, marched ahead to the town of Sipe Sipe; as I later observed, they then took their positions in the surrounding hills and behind the walls of the cultivated lands and the lands used for pasture. The harquebusiers, for their part, occupied the banks of the river, hiding along the walls of the ravine. The bulk of the army, in other words, the cavalry, took its place to the left of river and formed into its squadrons in the fields of Amiraya. Finally, the image that served as the army’s emblem was taken to the rear and placed in a prominent location, at the base of the low sierra which, as I have said, runs across that part of the valley, between Sipe Sipe and Quillacollo.

The lookout party, meanwhile, was quickly descending the slope on foot, each rider leading his horse by the bridle. An endless line of bayonets had begun to sparkle on the long crest behind them—these were the first troops of the vanguard of the enemy army.

My companion, tata Tuli, as much for his own personal safety as to obey the orders of his master «Don» Pancho—who now repeated it with a hand signal—took me at that point where he wished to go. I had no choice but to follow him, for even if I had not wanted to, my nag, as I have said many times, was a mere extension of the mare’s tail.

He took me very far away, as far as Caramarca, where we took our position at a knoll in the low sierra. It was a clear day; small white clouds, like puffs of cotton, drifted across the sky. A strong, but pure wind, which was normal for that season, was blowing from the Viloma ravine; it effectively swept away the dust raised by the troops in the fields so that we were able to see, from where we were, the great battle which, by then, was obviously imminent.

The vanguard of the enemy army descended into the field in many parallel lines, trotting down the hill in a tight formation, just as one would expect from well-disciplined, veteran troops. It was composed of the Royal Battalions of Lima and Paruro, a light column of chasseurs, and six pieces of mountain artillery. These last had already been mounted on the crest of the hill, and they must have caused an incredible amount of work for the men who had pulled them up that very steep slope. Their leader, the Brigadier Don Juan Ramírez, whom I believe I saw more than once throughout day, always on horseback, in front of his men, was to reach great fame during the war for his diligence and his coarseness and his stupidity. One could say of him that he was at once a lion, an eagle, and a rhinoceros.

It must have been after three in the afternoon when the cannons of the vanguard opened fire on the positions of our infantry. The famous carronades from Aroma fired back immediately and with good aim, according to later accounts by the Spaniards. Then, at that point, the slope became filled with the bulk of Goyeneche’s army.

It is said that Goyeneche ordered Tristán7 to speed up the pace of the rear and hurried the advance of the core divisions in order to be at the head of his own grenadiers from Cuzco and personally direct the vigorous attack. Half an hour later the infantry of the army of the patriots was dispersed by the attack. After a disorganized retreat, they were able to reorganize themselves at the hills of Suti-collo, but only briefly, before being definitively beat back to the banks of the river, where the column of harquebusiers was still in position.

Then, there was a moment of rest. Goyeneche wanted to gather all his troops and arrange them in the best manner to send them again into the field of Amiraya.

“Let’s get away, my son. . . . Let’s go to that hidden corner near Vilomilla!” tata Tuli said to me, terrified.

And without waiting for an answer, he spurred on the Vinchuca and headed away from the knoll. He crossed the river and would have continued on to where he had said, forcing me to go along, had I not begged and threatened him a thousand times for us to stop at Payacollo and take another prominent position there, on the hill that rises there out of the prairie like a natural cone.

The sun was now nearly touching the crest of the Cordillera, and the wind was more severe, blowing clouds of dust and smoke toward the opening of the Putina ravine. We could still see the main action of the battle.

The enemy’s army was moving into the banks of the river with its vanguard deployed in small sections, while its cavalry advanced along one of its flanks, and their cannons fired from their perfect position abandoned by the patriots on the ravine. I do not think that the bullets of our harquebusiers would have slowed down their attack even for an instant. Their range was too short, the projectile could not be forced without ruining the weapon’s bore, and, finally, it became unusable after at most six or seven shots.

The numerous cavalry of the patriots took on the main charge of the first enemy columns on the left side of the river; they were driven back and lost their formations, and the defeat seemed to be consummated. A very small party along the rear fled toward the rugged low sierra. I remember very well seeing a shiny object that must have been the image of the Virgin. She was saved—except for the fingers of her right hand, which had been shot off—by Jacinto Gómez, who was the first to reach the city with her and the terrible news.

The Brigadiers Rivero and Díaz Vêlez, the inexhaustible Don Esteban Arze, and the strange Guzman still managed to reorganize a few squadrons. They tried to flank the enemy’s army along both sides, so as to then attack it from behind. This last effort, which seemed at first to promise good results, ran aground, however, before the tactics and discipline of the opposing side, which presented compact and formidable cadres of sharp bayonets along the left wing, while, at the same time, the Spanish cavalry victoriously drove back the attack along the right wing.

As night began to fall, all that was left was the pursuit and pitiless massacring of the patriots. The majority of these fled to their right, climbing up the riverbed toward where I was. This was, in essence, the safest path of retreat, since it was very difficult and dangerous for the troops on horseback to climb the low sierra that I have mentioned often in this chapter.

Tata Tuli once again dragged me along with him, and I could hear rifle shots in the direction of our small house. My entire body trembled nervously; I wanted to go there at all cost; and, with an extraordinary effort, I managed to take control of the halter with which the mare was muzzled.

“Let’s get away! Let’s get away, for God’s sake!” the Indian was screaming desperately.

A stray bullet—either from those who fled or from their pursuers—whizzed over our heads. This made tata Tuli decide to jump off the horse. He crept down into a deep trench and ran off like a madman, while the frightened Vinchuca pulled away from me and ran through the field, followed as always by my nag.

Night was growing darker; my mount was out of control, and I did not know where I would end up—that is, if I was not first thrown and torn to pieces on the rocky ground, for it was very difficult by then for me to stay on my saddle. I had let go of the reins to grasp the front saddlebow with both hands. The nag had gone wild, jumping trenches, ridges, and walls in order to catch up to his inseparable companion, the mare. Finally, I saw before me a thick column of smoke, followed by the actual flames of the fire, reaching higher and higher toward the sky. And, illuminated by the evil glow of the fire, between the rocks, I thought I saw our small house, the grove of fig trees, and some strange-looking shapes in the clearing out in front of the house.

A moment later my horse stopped so suddenly and gave such a violent jump that it threw me over its head. Then, instead of breaking my skull, as I was sure would happen, I landed on a soft, furry body which did not move nor give any sign of life.

I stood up. At first I saw that the shed used as a kitchen was burning. Then, by the light of the flames, I recognized the body on which I had landed as Ventura’s beautiful horse, which he and Mariquita called Consuelo8—I had seen Mariquita pet and feed ears of corn or clumps of salt with her gentle hands to that horse so many times! Its head had been smashed by a bullet, and there was a pool of blood in front of its snout.

Not far from there, I found human corpses: a grenadier with his leather cap down by his beard, lying on his back with a broken-off lance sticking into his chest; and near him, the bodies of Pancho and of his son, lying so close together that I knew they had either been killed as they hugged, or that they had dragged themselves so as to die in each other’s arms.

I ran screaming toward the house, but at the door I tripped over another body, which I thought would have been Petrona’s. I went to the kitchen to get a torch, came back, and—my God! I don’t know, I cannot believe I have to write these things! I thought I saw on the ground—or rather I did actually see, for, horrendous as it was, it was undoubtedly real—the body of Mariquita. She was stretched out on her back, her arms crossed on her chest, her body half-naked as the embers from the burning roof fell on it! At that point, the roof collapsed, and a volcano of black smoke and burning sparks rose into the sky.

And that is how I saw, as a child, one of the most dreadful scenes of the war! Oh! War must not be waged again in the world except by desperate peoples with a purpose as grand and just as that which America invoked in 1810! Its consequences are always the cruelest for the most innocent and the most helpless, like that poor girl who I saw alive for the last time praying silently at the door of that small, humble house, in which none of its previous owners would live again!

How can I now—if that is what you expect—express what I suffered, my horror, my fright? ... I believe I fled, that I circled round the clearing, falling and getting up many times. A deep silence surrounded me. The calm moon had risen and spread its silver rays over these scenes, and I do not know if it was from the glow of the fire or from this gentle light, but they now seemed even more terrible and painful.

I heard a few soft whistles from among the fig trees. A voice that I recognized at once cautiously called out, one by one, the names of all the inhabitants of the house—who of course could no longer answer him. A moment later Alejo was at my side, and I held on to him strongly, sobbing.

“What is this?” he asked me. “Where are they?”

“Dead!” I answered.

“My God!” he replied. Then he set down on the ground another inanimate body, that of a boy of about my age, whom he had been carrying draped over his shoulder. “Before hearing what you have to say,” Alejo continued, “he,” pointing to the child, “is to blame for me not being killed in the battle. He insisted in carrying the ramrod and the fuse, he was wounded very early, he grabbed on to my feet, crying, calling out for his grandmother, and I had to flee with him to save him. Poor Dionisio!”

Then he ran off to identify the corpses. He entered the house and looked among the debris from the kitchen, burning his hands in the process. He took a long time to return to where I stood, silent, trembling, with Dionisio’s body at my feet. He came back crying. He was sobbing more than me, and I was a child. . . . What am I saying?! He was crying and sobbing, I should say, like those strong, simple men, those primitive natures who are all heart and soul when they love those who know how to be loved!

“There is nothing for us to do here,” he said to me after a while, when he could speak again between his sobs. “We can no longer help, nor receive help from anyone. I want to assure you, though, that I will come back to bury them, even if it gets me killed in the process. . . . Which would be better yet: I wouldn’t have to go on living! And this one,” he said, referring to Dionisio’s body, “well leave next to his poor grandfather, who is also dead, on the dais.”

I followed Alejo blindly. But before we got very far, he stopped and asked me:

“Why didn’t they run away?”

“I believe,” I answered, “that the women stayed behind to care for the grandfather, who couldn’t walk. . . .”

“And the others,” he finished for me, “returned to defend them and were killed in their own home!”

Of what we did afterward I have only vague recollections. I believe that at one point, when we came near a torrent, which must have been the Viloma River, I threw myself face down and drank avidly from the warm, brackish water that runs over the red sands, like blood. I remember that we arrived—I do not know if I was on my own feet or in my guide’s arms—to a hut, and that some dogs were barking furiously at its door. And I also remember that several people forced me to lie down on a bed of sheepskins; that these burned like the embers I saw falling on Mariquita’s body and which were also falling on mine; that I tried to flee, but was either held back or weighed down by a very heavy weight, such as the horse that lay dead in the clearing of Las Higueras.