EIGHTY-FOUR

BEFORE WE LEFT Atotonilco, more cloth paintings of the Virgin of Guadalupe were mounted on lances. Now there were three warrior priests taking the lead, marching in the front of the huge horde, carrying high the banners of the Virgin.

What courage these men of God had! I knew how to fight with a sword and pistol, but these priests had nothing but their faith and courage.

The criollos evaporated before us: some vaqueros joined our cavalry from the haciendas we passed along the way, but the criollo owners and majordomos fled from what they regarded as an army of rabble. And it must have looked that way; our ranks swelled with Aztecs every foot of the way toward San Miguel de Grande. The pond that kept increasing was now a long river of humanity fed by streams and trickles of indios coming from every direction.

I found it amazing that the Aztecs didn’t question the leaders or even ask where they were going. Abandoning their fields, they fell in line and marched, as did the mestizos, although in smaller numbers only because they were a smaller proportion of the colony’s population. From the appearance of the mestizos’ clothing, I could see they were poor peons, not small tradesmen or rancheros.

Many times I saw men on horseback between us and San Miguel pause and watch us, then wheel their horses and ride back toward the city as if the devil was breathing down their necks. And he was. I could only imagine their faces when they rushed through the city streets shouting that thousands of bloodthirsty Aztecs were advancing toward their homes.

I fell back to where Raquel and Marina were riding in line. They didn’t discuss or care about the terrified looks of the gachupines and criollos but focused on the expressions of the Aztecs.

“Look at their faces,” Marina said. “They’re bright and full of hope. I can’t remember a time when I’ve seen a man of our people laugh or even grin. They’ve been morose, full of sadness, humiliated and oppressed for so long, they’ve lost their sense of identity. Even their women were taken from them by the conquerors. As they march to redeem their honor, you can see the pride on their faces.”

She was right. I had rarely seen a happy indio, except when he had a belly full of pulque.

“They’re happy,” I said, “because they’re on a crusade. They’re on their way to Méjico City, the Holy Land of New Spain.”

They didn’t understand that they might all be dead tomorrow.

“A children’s crusade,” Raquel said, “that’s what we look like, not brutal knights in armor but innocents with hope and courage shining in our eyes because only children can be so ingenuous, so lacking in fear.”

“A children’s crusade?” Marina asked.

“Europe saw two such movements. Back in the Middle Ages, two boys each set out in Europe with other children following them, intent upon going to the Holy Land and reclaiming it for Christ. Both boys claimed to have had visions in which they were instructed to lead an army of children to reclaim the Holy Land from the infidel. Thousands of them marched across Europe.”

“They marched to their doom,” I added. “Tens of thousands with no place to go. Many were tricked onto boats and sold to the infidels as slaves by Christian ship captains.” I grinned at Raquel, pleased at myself. I had heard the story from her many years before.

“Well, it won’t happen here,” Marina said. “We’re not children, and our leader isn’t on a crusade but simply wants recognition of the rights of all people. Someday you’ll see indios dressed in the same clothes as everyone else, and you won’t know the difference.”

One of the criollo officers, a friend of Allende’s, overheard Marina’s remark as he trotted by on his horse. “A monkey dressed in silk is still a monkey,” he sneered.

I pursed my lips as I watched the man’s back. My nose itched for a fight. “It’s too bad he’s on our side . . . or I would teach him the meaning of social justice with my boot up his backside.”

Raquel shook her head and muttered, “Once a bad hombre, always a bad one. We must all learn to get along together as brothers and sisters.”

Marina and I exchanged looks. Raquel was an idealist. Neither Marina nor I were under any illusion that the criollos would give up their dominance of the lower classes until the peons won their freedom on the battlefield.

I rode to a higher point so I could view both the city of San Miguel and the horde descending upon it. Our puddle had swelled to an allengulfing sea.

The priests led the way with their banner of the Virgin held high. Father Hidalgo and Allende followed next on horseback, with an honor guard of Allende’s soldiers.

I’m not a man who has known God. Actually, I have spent most of my life avoiding Him in the hopes that He wouldn’t notice me and hold me accountable for my sins. But as I watched the procession, for the first time in my life, I felt the power and passion of the Lord.