Pottery and Rebellion

Lynae and Brent slowly went about the chore of unpacking their suitcases after flying back to Las Vegas from the Salt Lake City airport. The eight weeks with Mom had gone unusually fast, and now, with less than a week before school starting, they had to get their clothes in order, reclaim their bedrooms from the invasion of steplings over the summer and get geared up for a new school year. Brent was especially excited about beginning high school at Rancho Academy for Aerospace and Aviation.
“Where did you get that braid?” Brent shot an accusing glance at Lynae.
“It’s Mom’s. The one she cut from her hair when she was my age. Look! It is exactly the color of my own hair.” Lynae pinned the braid to her own hair and let it fall down her back.
"Lynae had to bring an extra suitcase just to hold the souvenirs and T-shirts she bought on the trip," Brent reported out loud to no one in particular, sounding disgusted. He was secretly pleased that at least she hadn't spent all her money on candy and junk this summer.
"I work for my money baby sitting; I can spend it on what I like," Lynae defended. "Besides, you haven't even looked at some of the stuff I got in New Mexico." Lynae remarked defensively as she smoothed the Indian blanket over the top of her bed.
"Well I did see that piece of broken pottery covered with mud. I hope you didn't pay for that!"
"No, actually, I picked it up just outside the fence at the Acoma village. I asked the tour guide if I could keep it, and without even looking at it she told me, sure, it's just a rock. But I think it is a piece of ancient pottery." Lynae whispered in a conspiratorial voice.
"Sure, like it's still going to be on top of the ground after four hundred years of wars and weather.”
“Mom says her family used to find pottery and arrowheads on the farm when she was a kid, and sometimes even when she and Dad were first married."
"Well, maybe it just washed up during a summer rain storm.”
“... or maybe it was put there especially for me to find. Come on, Brent, leave your stuff and help me clean it up to see what it really is."
Brent was ready for an excuse to abandon his room and went with Lynae into the kitchen to use the sink. He stopped at the couch long enough to pull on a fresh pair of tube socks from the laundry basket. "We'll have to hurry, Gina and Dad will be back pretty soon, and they said to have all this put away before they got back."
“Good grief, Brent, don’t you have any socks with toes in them?” Lynae scoffed at Brent’s worn socks, then turned to the chore at hand.
"OK, get the little scrubbing brush and a sponge. I'm going to put hot soapy water in the sink, we’ll see if that will dissolve the mud. I don't want to hurt the picture."
"What picture?" Brent asked, somewhat annoyed that he didn't know about it."
"Look, you can see some of it through the mud! It’s coming clearer."
"Lynae, this looks evil." The brightly colored picture seemed to come to life as the mud washed away. Holding it in the light, Lynae could barely see the marks, but as she washed, it seemed to take on a light of its own. On the pottery were three painted figures, and they were carefully sculptured around to make them stand out in relief. Each figure had fire coming from all the extremities of its body.
"Ouch," Lynae cried dropping the pottery onto a towel. "It burned me! It’s hot! Look! it’s glowing where the fire is coming out from the men. It‘s glowing hot! Brent -- don't touch it! It’s evil!"
Lightening-like lights flashed out from the broken pottery, reeling them back through time and space. Brent and Lynae found themselves seated in the back of a Kiva in a Taos pueblo. In the front sat Popé,[1] a San Juan Indian who had participated in previous rebellions. He to worked up the Indians, attempting to combine the Apache and Pueblo tribes against the Spanish. Now, he was communicating with the spirits much as the Gadianton Robbers must have communicated with Satan for inspiration. The vision opened to Popé of the three figures on the pottery.
“Oh, Brent, this doesn’t look good. Do you see the vision that Popé is seeing in the flame?”
“There -- Those are the three figures on your old chunk of pottery.” Brent emphasized the word YOUR, as if to blame Lynae for this trip into history.
Both children listened as Popé communicated with these spirits. “Make a cord of maguey cactus fiber. Tie knots to count the days the tribes must wait for the rebellion to begin!” the voices directed Popé. “Pass the rope from village to village, counting the days. The warriors will know.” The voices continued. “They will remember the betrayal by the ancient white brothers. Vengeance will be ours!” The voice raised to a shrill pitch, increasing the intensity as it described the evils of the ancient legends and the righteousness of the revolt to restore the birthright stolen from them by the earliest white men. These ancient legends of the white brothers who had betrayed them thousands of years before seemed to awaken revenge as the Indian leaders heard the plan for attack and passing along the knotted rope from village to village.
Lynae whispered her concern to Brent, “I read that later on these same Indians will defend their anger and murdering their friends who had not done them harm. Some Indians will tell Friar Defouri that the devil had appeared to them in the form of a giant and told them. He told them that he was their ancient master and ordered them to meet together and put to death all the Spaniards. They were told not to hold back or spare even the church people -- that he would help them. By following him, he promised their lost independence would be restored to them, and they would throw off all subjection[2]. This must have been what they were talking about."
"Sure sounds like Gadianton to me," Brent breathed quietly. “I thought he had been buried with the golden plates,[3] but this is over a thousand years later, and he is still stirring up trouble between the Lamanites and the white brothers.”
“Well, at least he didn’t get a lot of cooperation from the different tribes. Heaven knows he tried hard enough, but he wasn’t able to unite any of the tribes in this rebellion. They just all fought as separate units. There were no common leaders, no definite plan of action except naming of the day for the war to begin by passing the knotted rope! Think how bad it could have been for everyone if they had coordinated their efforts. We might never have been born!”
"I told you,” he suddenly turned angrily to Lynae. ” I didn't want to even think about the 1680 rebellion! Now you brought me here with your filthy chunk of pottery. Don't start crying when things get really scary, because they will. And I'm going to be just as scared as you.“
At dawn on August 10, 1680,[4] Brent and Lynae encountered two men traveling toward Tesuque Pueblo chapel to administer Mass to the faithful Christian Indians, but Friar Juan Baptista Pío and curly haired Pedro Hidalgo found only an empty village.
"Padre Pío, was your grandfather our friend, Juan, that was raised by Cristóbal Baca?"
"Oh, right," Brent countered, "like he would believe you knew his grandfather eighty years ago, and you are still, like -- twelve. Give-me-a-break."
"Well, you talk to them, since you’re so smart. We need to find out where we are and how to get to the others to warn them about the rebellion. Today is the day it the rebellion starts."
"I don't think we can change anything. I think we just have to watch, since we are here."
“At least tell them to be careful," Lynae whispered. Then, darting out toward the two men, she picked up an abandoned shield and handed it to him. "Here Padre, take this shield, and be careful." Brent and Lynae followed closely behind as the friar and his companion found the small congregation waiting in the hills. “Other armed Indians were gathering; some had bows and arrows or lances and shields; some had painted their faces and bodies.”
Holding up the shield, Friar Pío walked toward them, Brent and Lynae could hear his clear strong voice saying, "What is this. . . are you mad? Do not disturb yourselves; I will help you and die a thousand deaths for you.[5]"
“Unable to persuade them to return to the village, they rode into the ravine to join them. Hidalgo rode away to find the rest, while Father Pío continued his attempt to calm and disarm the villagers.
“When Hidalgo saw blood spattered, painted war-horses, he realized one of the warriors carried the shield Friar Pío had taken with him, he stopped frozen in place. The Indians quickly grasped the reins of Hidalgo's horse and tried to pull him down, grabbing his sword and hat. Brent and Lynae mounted the extra ponies and rode along close to Hidalgo pulling at his mount and helping him to escape among the arrows shot at them as they fled.
Riding hard through the farms and villages toward Santa Fe, the three warned colonials of the rebellion: “The Indians have taken up arms against the Spaniards. Being the first to spread the alarm, they shouted to anyone they saw. Joining them on the trail were Sebastian de Herrera Corrales and his Sergeant Mayor, don Fernando Durán y Chaves who had also witnessed the murder of Friar Pío. Slipping south through Ute country they had returned to find their families massacred. Hidalgo was bleeding from a cut on his neck, but the five rode on at a full gallop into Santa Fé plaza to tell of the death of Friar Pío and of the armed Pueblo warriors making their way north.”[6]
Hidalgo left Brent and Lynae at the Governor Oterman office where the governor paced back and forth shouting orders. “Why didn’t I follow up on the warnings yesterday?” They heard Oterman cursing. “Now it’s too late. There is no time to call in the frontier men-at-arms. We must try to send scouts to the settlers along the river in the outlying farms, ranches and haciendas.”
One by one reports of the slaughter of whole families came to the governor. Brent and Lynae stood mutely in the office, fearful to utter a word. Finally Brent got the courage to urge the governor to make repairs to the gates and walls of the villa; Oterman followed the council of the soon to be fourteen year old boy.
All through the Río Grande valley, the rebelling Pueblos massacred settlers, friars, and soldiers. Brent and Lynae remembered that first discussion between Antonio and Juan nearly eighty years ago. "Why would the Pueblos rise up in revolt after being one people for four score years?" Lynae echoed the question that had haunted her since that first encounter.
Brent looked amused in spite of the horrible drama unfolding before them. “Four Score years?”
"I just always wanted to say that," Lynae grinned impishly.
No one had time to answer any questions, now. Brent obediently followed new orders to ride with Corrales and Sergeant Chavez leading a group of soldiers to warn the settlers in the outlying districts and warn them to defend themselves. They slipped past the Taos rebels and those of La Cañada to catch up with the group of colonists evacuating the settlement at Río Abajo, giving them the first news about the situation in the North.
Otterman ordered anyone who could carry a weapon to fight for the defense of the capital. Able bodied men, women and children strong enough to fight were enlisted in the small army. Soldiers carried all types of weapons from the armory: "harquebusiers, blunderbusses, swords, daggers, shields and munitions. Rooftops and gates became sentry towers, and even the church was guarded to protect the holy sacrament and the images, sacred vessels, and things pertaining to divine worship."
Lynae, now a refugee herself, did all she could to help tend the babies and the injured children. Even though the sight of blood usually made her squeamish, she diligently washed and bandaged child after child and taking each in her arms to comfort in this time of pain and the loss, for many of them had lost all the rest of their families. Lynae rocked the children to comfort them. She found herself singing the little ditty her mother had sung to her. “Sana sana colita de rana. Si no sanarás hoy sanaras manana”
Lynae herself found comfort knowing that she was among family. Cristóbal Baca, nephew of Antonio Baca and his three grown sons and three daughters were among the refugees in Santa Fé. Cristóbal was the son in law of Diego de Truillo; his wife Ana De Lara had their children with them: Catalina, Juana and Luisa, and their sons, Jose, Manuel and Ignacio.
Manuel Baca, about twenty five years old, was a well-built man with a ruddy face, thick beard and wavy hair. His wife, María de Salazar Hurtado, worked side by side with Lynae taking care of her own children along with any others that needed help.
Those left inside The Palace of Governors quickly dug trenches, throwing up hills of dirt and stationing armed soldiers on the roofs. They stationed cannons, charged and mounted on carriages, and aimed at the entrances of the streets. It looked just like a scene from the stories Lynae had read in the time of Alma”.
Lynae watched in vein for Brent to return as messengers and refugees streamed into the palace.
What had she done bringing home that pottery and putting their lives in danger? The very time period Brent had begged her to skip, and she had brought them right there into the middle of the most dangerous time. And Brent had obediently ridden away to warn the others. Would she ever see him again; would they be reunited in Las Vegas, or would this be the end for both of them? She wondered, blinded by the flow of oncoming tears.
When Oterman gave orders to seek all survivors and bring them and their herds into Santa Fe, Lynae once again began to have hope that Brent would be found. She heard the report that the messengers sent to García had all been killed and García was under heavy attack between the pueblos of Alameda and Cochita.
More messengers came, but still no sign of Brent. Finally, Governor Oterman was told that García and his band of settlers had been wiped out by an Indian attack.


Lynae walked through the days grieving not only for the loss of her brother, but the loss of her life in the twenty-first century. Without Brent, how would she ever be able to return? She would be stuck in the past forever.
The family of Andres Hurtado had also gathered with the refugees in Santa Fé. He and his wife, Bernadina de Salas y Orozco had held the encomiendas of Santa Ana and neighboring pueblos. Bernadina, now suddenly a widow, was there with several of her children. She was a granddaughter of María de Vera. One of her daughters had married Francisco de Trujillo. There were several Hurtado children.
Bernadina took charge of the Hurtado family along with her own children; she organized them to help feed and care for one another as well as other families, in spite of her grief over the loss of her husband and the capture of her daughter, Juana. Lynae comforted her by promising that Juana would be found and rescued by her own brother Martín, but she didn't tell her that it would take nearly twelve years. Bernadina was in such grief, that she didn’t ask Lynae how she could know that. She just accepted it as a comfort to her at that time. She hugged Lynae to her, realizing that Lynae was alone there as a child refugee. She invited her to stay among her family in need of a protecting family. There was no thought to ask Lynae where her parents were or where she had lived, as the women went among the lost and injured giving comfort and relief in the ever traditional hospitality of the Spanish people.
Lynae sought out her old friend, María Ortíz de Vera; she remembered well the frightened young woman with two young children. Her marriage was been annulled by the church and the father of her children banished to the Canary Islands with his first wife. She felt like her heart would break on hearing that little Petronila, by now a mother with a large family, had been killed at Pojoaque with all of her eight children.

Maria’s second husband was Antonio Abendano; now called María de Abendano, together they held the encomienda of Pojoaque Pueblo. They had a son Simón Salas, and her two daughters from the previous invalid marriage to Diego de Vera. Crowded into the lower rooms of the round watch tower for safety, Lynae overheard gossip about Antonio having been accused in 1664 having relations with on of these step daughters, Petronila. One woman said it was because he was jealous of her husband, Pedro Romero. It seemed so strange to Lynae that here, among all the trials and heartbreak, there would be time to gossip about something that happened over fifteen years before. As she reflected on this for a moment she recognized that things don't change much even over four hundred years; gossip is gossip and it will always raise its head when families get together, no matter what the circumstances.
‘Antonio Jorge de Vera, resident of Rio Abajo in 1661, and his wife, Gertrudis Baca with their children Antonio, Ana, wife of Alonso García de Noriega and Isabel, wife of Antonio Montano de Sotomayer.”
While the Pueblos took the time to get control of the surrounding countryside, the Spaniards had time to bring in survivors from the outlying districts. Two Christian Indians sent by Oterman with a message to García returned horrifying news: the rebels had taken over the road to the Río Abajo. Five hundred Indians from Pecos Galisteo La Cienega and other pueblos were racing back to attack Santa Fe.
Lynae shuddered and could not hold back her fear nor her tears as she heard the cry: “God and Santa Maria are dead! The rebels are coming with one purpose in mind — to kill the governor, the priests and all the settlers."
“Then word came that Apaches had joined the Indian rebels. Could it get any worse? Early in the morning of August 13, sentries at Santa Fé spotted a host of rebel Indians in the fields of maize near San Miguel Church. Then warriors took Bario de Analco, looting and burning houses of Christian Mexican Indians.
“A Pueblo leader, a Tanoan from Galisteo called Juan, rode up to the gates under a sign of truce, wearing a sash of red taffeta. He was fully armed with harquebus, sword, dagger and even a protective leather jacket. He brought Governor Oterman a message. After some discussion, he agreed to enter the plaza to speak with the governor. He confirmed that all deaths and reports of destruction, and reported that the rebel army was on its way. He warned they would offer the Spaniards the choice of one of two crosses, one red, the other white. Choosing the red cross would mean continued war; the white cross would indicate that all Spaniards would abandon the province”.
Hearing the name Juan, Lynae shuddered, realizing that this too might be a grandson of their friend Juan. How had he known that his descendants would fight against Antonio's? Had Juan’s descendants not only killed the families of the colonists, but Brent too? Lynae did the only things she knew to do. She prayed continuously as she numbly performed the grizzly duties. She knew the many mothers and children joined her prayers, continuing to pray day and night for the safety of their men and lost family members. Many of the men had been away with the Leyva escort and no one had heard from them.
“Válgame Diós” Lynae whispered over and over again.

Oterman shouted his answer to Juan. “We do not want war! You will never defeat us! I will give you once chance to lay down your weapons. I promise to pardon the crimes you have committed but you must disarm quietly!”
Juan reported the governor's response to his followers and was greeted by hoots and shouts of laughter. Oterman advisors urged him to attack immediately before the rebels could get more reinforcements, but as the soldiers left the gates other Indians ambushed and killed them. Oterman arrived with reinforcements and managed to drive the Indians off. Turning on the rebels who had burned San Miguel, the Spaniards fought most of the rest of the day reclaiming their houses from the rebels. Wounded and dying many of the Spaniards continued to fight, taking back small herds of animals and some weapons to the villa. The fighting continued through the day, Spaniards burnt many houses to the ground to keep the rebels from using them.
A large army of Taos and Picurus Indians attacked the villa from the other side, forcing Oterman to turn his attack against them. Holding their newly gained positions until dark, the rebels captured many of the houses behind the Casas Reales and set fire to the church. They captured the cultivated fields and a few herds of cattle and sheep leaving the remaining colonists with little food supply.
For nine more days the Indians attacked Santa Fé. They had already been without water for two days. Each sunrise Lynae knotted the rope belt she wore around her tattered clothes.
Oterman stood before the bedraggled colonists and announced: “The only way, out, rather than stay and die of starvation and fear, is for us, all of us, to fight our way through to Isleta. This will be better -- to die fighting -- than to die slowly of hunger and thirst. The women and children must fight as well. If we don’t we won’t stand a chance of anyone surviving.”
“At sunrise on August 20, 1680, the governor advanced with a small force of hand-picked veterans. Taken by surprise the rebels were routed with great losses. By eleven o'clock the siege had been broken. The Spaniards claimed to have killed three hundred rebels and put the rest of the Indian army to flight. Forty-seven rebels were captured interrogated and executed. The Spanish attack, bold as it appeared, was an act of desperation, for the rebel had numbered over fifteen hundred warriors”.
“Abandoning Santa Fé was the only choice. Oterman's officers stated that the safety of the people and animals could not be guaranteed if they remained in the town. He ordered everything destroyed and everyone leave before the rebels recovered. On August 21, 1680, Oterman ordered all clothing and livestock divided among the defenders their families and servants. Then the bedraggled troop set out to rendezvous with Alonso García at Isleta. Day after day they walked southward watching every turn or hill for rebels. The small army fought its way through with the remaining families following close behind.”
There were very few wagons or pack animals, so each man, woman and child carried a pack or a smaller child on their back. Oterman organized the one thousand refugees into groups with appointed myordomos to oversee. Each assisted his own group. In this way all the families could be supervised and their needs met along the way, much like Moses organized the children of Israel on their exodus.
As she walked along each day following the Río Grande southward, they passed burned farms and fields. From those they were able to scrounge meager meals of nearly ripe corn and squash and an occasional tomato or ripening cantaloupe. The irrigation ditches marked the boundaries of the fields of rich fertile ground, and appeared as markers for possible sources of food. Wheat, barley and corn from the fields left standing was gleaned, and each night the women found ways to prepare food for their families.
Lynae mingled with the other colonists encouraging the children and comforting the mothers. She became acquainted with eighty year old Pedro Lucero de Godoy, a native of Mexico City. He had a brother Francisco with him. Another brother, Diego, was a secular priest still in Mexico. She listened to Pedro tell story after story of his involvement in most of the church and political intrigues of his time, detailing how he managed to steer clear of unpleasant consequences experienced by others. By 1663, at age sixty-three, he had attained the rank of maese de Campo. In this same year, he said, he was Lieutenant governor of the Kingdom, as well as Syndic of Franciscans.
Twelve year old Lynae began to feel uncomfortable around him after he boasted that he had married first wife was Petronila de Zamora, when she was just eleven years old. Her brother was Diego Montoya, and the youngest child of Bartólome Montoya and María de Zamora when they came to New Mexico in 1600. Worrying that she might be chosen as the next wife if she were stuck in that time, Lynae decided to travel in different company for the rest of the journey.
Juan Lucero de Godoy was Pedro's eldest son. He had been Secretary of Government and War in 1663. Godoy told Lynae that he had resided in Santa Fé forty years. He was Sargento Mayor and the Alcalde Mayor of Santa Fé when he escaped with his wife, four grown sons bearing arms and four grown daughters. Not having television or books, Lynae enjoyed the stories of this tall, nearly sixty-year-old relative. He had a soothing voice and manner, and after just a few minutes she forgot about his large pock marked face and crooked aquiline nose.
With him was his sister, Catalina de Zamora, who also escaped with four grown nieces and five servants. Lynae grieved with them over the loss of so many of their family. The Indians had killed two nephews and more than thirty other relatives. Juan's first wife was Luísa Romero. This second wife, Juana de Carvajal, had escaped with him. Lynae understood that these losses were especially grievous because they could not have funerals and services for the lost family members. There were friars along, but it wasn’t safe to stop long enough to perform a proper burial. There could be no real closure without seeing the bodies blessed and buried. She wondered about her families in 1997 -- how would they deal with the loss of Brent and herself? Would there be grieving, or would they just not have ever existed?
Under any other circumstances, Lynae would have enjoyed playing match-maker to the couples she knew would be married after the war, but the grief, fatigue and helplessness she felt now, took all the play out of her, and she very seriously attended to the chores at hand.
“Francisco Lucero de Gody an Alferez and Armorer, had escaped with a family of twenty-two persons, including wife, children and servants. He stood tall and erect , had a thick beard, a wound scar on his mustache and another on the right side of his nose. His lands in Santa Fe, which formerly belonged to Andrés López, were on the Cienega road.
“Marching in military formation, more than one thousand men, women, and children left Santa Fé behind them. Oterman, who had been wounded twice, led his settlers southward on the Camino Real which eighty-two years earlier had brought their Spaniard ancestors to New Mexico. Arriving at Isleta they found the pueblo abandoned. The scouts reported the signs that García had already retreated toward El Paso. At least there was a glimmer of hope that some had escaped and taken Brent with them.
As each little child cried that it was too far to walk, or that he was thirsty or tired, Lynae stroked their heads and pointed to the Eastern Mountains. “See the blue mountains? There at he end there is a V where the mountains end, then start again. That is where we will stop and rest.” For all she knew, that would be where she would grow up and live the remainder of her own life. “That will be our home. We will be safe there.”
Day after day the hot sun beat down on the refugees turning the silt covered fields to dust. Thunder and rain storms followed changing the earth into sticky mud that held the wheels of the few carts and slowed the procession of refugees. “Don’t worry, hijita,” Lynae would encourage the children. “The rain doesn’t last more than a couple of hours, and then the sun will shine again.” But secretly Lynae longed for the tiny back seat of the Ford Escort®, where she could curl up with her blanket and sleep through the long drive south in the driving rain.
Day after day they followed the trial southward toward El Paso. Brent had spent most of the last several days standing lookout on one tower then another, hoping for a sign of the Santa Fe people. He could see them coming for miles and excitedly rode out to meet them and to find his little sister, grown mature with compassion and fear.
Brent hugged and dragged Lynae simultaneously as he talked about his weeks with the Río Abajo Refugees. He rushed to introduce his sister to the rest of their family.
“They told us you were all killed!” Lynae cried, throwing herself on the broad shoulders of her precious brother. “They said all of García’s party had been massacred!”
“We escaped,” Brent understated. “We had a good guide and leader and we escaped. They probably sent back that report to make you want to give up. But we’re mostly all here, together. Lynae, you don’t need to cry now. It’s over.” Brent hugged the crying girl, making a valiant effort himself to hold back the flood of tears threatening to flow out from relief and compassion for his little sister. “There, there, no te preocupas.” He petted her head lovingly.
Changing the subject quickly, Brent began to pull Lynae along. "You remember don Fernando Durán y Chaves II? – He is the Capitán, who rode with us to Santa Fe. Father Bernal described him ten years ago as an Alferez and youth of good repute. He is our captain who fled the Indian Rebellion with the Río Abajo people. He was the only one of our leaders who voted to turn back and help the Santa Fé colonists. Unlike the rest of the Chaves family, his Uncle Pedro's family and his first cousin Fernando, the Sargento Mayor of Taos, he’s not going try to stop the resettlement of New Mexico, nor ask to return to New Spain. The rest of his family came with you guys. I’m glad to see them back together. He already said he’s willing to return.” Lynae glanced at the thirty year old man Brent pointed out, and agreed that he could be described as having a good stature with a fair and ruddy complexion. “His wife is Lucia Hurtado de Salas. She had to flee with him and take their four little kids from the raids. They’ll have a bunch more when they return to Santa Fé 1693. Chavez says this is the most important Chaves family, being the only one to return with Vargas so they are the parent stem of the next four hundred years of Chavez families in New Mexico."
"And this is the Captain's first cousin, don Fernando Durán y Chaves," Brent indicated a tall thin soldier, about thirty-four years old, with good features and a thick black beard. "Sargento Mayor resided in Taos Valley. The Indians massacred his wife and three children,” Brent related solemnly. “But he and a grown son, Cristóbal, were away from home on that fateful day. When they returned in the evening they found everything lost. They raced to Santa Fé and found that city overtaken by the Indians. They continued south and caught up with us, bringing us the first news that Santa Fe's people were standing against the Pueblos’ attack. That’s when I knew you would be OK.” Brent patted his sisters sholder to reassure her. “Don Fernando had a sister, María de Chaves, who was the wife of Bérnabe Márquez. His wife, Elena Ruiz Caceres, was also murdered at Taos but his two daughters escaped the massacre because they were captured by the Indians.”
“I promised them that the little girls were alive and would be in 1692, or else they were with their mother's relatives who escaped, Brent admitted sheepishly. "People gave me some strange looks, like 'who are you to tell the future?’ But I just wanted to give them some comfort. It must be so terrible not knowing what has happened to your family in a war like this. It's bad enough being separated from Mom and our own siblings, but at least we know where our family is most the time. When I didn't know where you were, or if you were safe, it was a lot harder to be away from you."
Brent’s face reddened, and he turned abruptly to hide the new onslaught of tears. Then he chattered on, sitting on the tongue of the wagon to remove a rock from his shoe.
“Good grief, Brent, are you still wearing those holey socks? Mine have about worn out, too, with all the walking.”
”Well, maybe our clothes don’t exactly fit the style of our families but our socks do. Haven't you noticed? Most people are wearing tube socks with no toes in them? So we are right in sync!”
“Cristóbal is only about sixteen He’s still single, and pretty good looking -- tall and swarthy. With that mole on the right cheek he fits right in with our own family. He will return with the Reconquest in l692, and three years after the Reconquest, in 1695, he will be stationed at Cuquiasachi in the frontier of Sonora.”
"That is don José Durán y Cháves and his wife, Ana Marquez Carvajal, and her mother, Margarita Márquez who escaped together with a child and ten servants." Brent pointed to a big guy about twenty-six years old, with a thin aquiline face, a thick beard, and half-closed eyes. Brent lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "His wife will try to poison him at El Real de San Lorenzo in 1682 but another Chaves by the name of Juan takes the non fatal potion by mistake and gets sick."
"I guess the post traumatic shock of the rebellion affected everyone's lives and many personalities." Lynae said thoughtfully.
"He was a first cousin of Pedro Varela. He was probably a son of don Pedro II, and will take his side along with the Dominguez clan against returning to New Mexico."
"Over there by the well, that's don Juan Durán y Chaves, he's only about seventeen. They call everyone don that has any age or money. It’s more a title of respect than a first name." Lynae watched a young man walk by and recognized him by the description Brent had made earlier -- a good body, fair complexion a ruddy pockmarked face, with red and curly hair. "He is the one who will drink the poison meant for José de Chaves He is a brother of María de Chaves and therefore also Fernando the Sargento Mayor of Taos. In 1682 Juan will kill Diego Dominguez and that is the last we will ever hear of him.”
“Don’t you think we could warn some of these people and save their lives?” Lynae asked, knowing the answer.
“Well, number one, I don’t think they would listen to us any more than anyone listens to bad things about the future. And B, I don’t think it is our place to change history,. Just observe and learn, and maybe we can take some of the lessons to change our own futures.”
"Don Tomas Durán y Chaves will be nineteen years old in 1681, and will marry the same year. He says that he could not take part in the Oterman Expdition because he has no one with whom to leave his wife and livestock. But actually, it’s because he’s too busy trafficking in cattle and other trade with old don Pedro de Chaves and others. Chavez says his excuses and actions show him to be the son bearing arms, which don Pedro mentioned in 1680.” Lynae started laughing out loud. "What?" Brent questioned.
"I thought the ladies of the family gossiped when they got together. You take the cake! You not only gossip about the past, but can even gossip about the future of these men. “
"But only to you, hermanita, only to you. Look over there,” Brent rattled on ignoring her next comment.
“Besides, I think you cheated and brought along the Chavez book. You are using his colonial words to describe everyone."
“That's Pedro de Cedillo, a native of Quertaro, Mexico. He arrived in New Mexico in second half of the century. By 1680 he was a captain living in the Río Abajo district. He escaped the Indian Rebellion with his family. He says he’s about seventy, and that he has one grown son, twenty years old who is ready to serve as a soldier, and then eight other children. His wife Isabel López de Gracía and the full family name was Cedillo Rico de Rojas. “
“I am surprised at how old some of these geezers are. The work they did in helping the refugee families is amazing for any age."
"Yeah, like Diego de Trujillo over there. He was born 1612 so he's about seventy. He first appears in New Mexico as an Alferez and farmer, nineteen or twenty years old in 1632. He was in the soldier escort for the wagon train in 1641. By 1662 he was fifty, a Sargento Mayor, living in the jurisdiction of Sandia as Lieutenant General for the Río Abajo area as well as Alcalde Mayor of Zuni. He declared that he was born in Mexico City. That's his wife as Catalina Vasquez."
The evening sun was setting over the eastern mountains, casting a shadow on the pass through the mountains to the south Brent and Lynae strolled along through the camp, enjoying their own reunion as well as the sight of the other survivors with whom they had fled. There was a great deal of mourning and grief, but still there were things to be thankful for. At this minute, Lynae and Brent knew that above all else, surviving family members were grateful for their lives and being reunited with those family members who had also survived.
“I guess it will take a long time to get over the grief and the shock of all that has happened during this month.” Lynae said quietly. I know their prayers and their faith will help them through this time of grief.”
Brent didn’t want to dwell on the losses. It was too painful. "You remember Pedro Hidalgo, Lynae. Pedro escaped with us from the murder of Father Pío. He looks different now that he's cleaned up and rested."
Lynae looked at the large, swarthy man who she now recognized. He appeared to be about thirty-four years old with a thick beard and short curly hair. He had a long scar on his neck. Lynae remembered the slash on his neck bleeding onto his shirt while they rode toward Santa Fe. He had been reunited in El Paso with his family of eight. At Guadalupe del Paso he became an officer of the Conquistadora Confraternidad which actively protected the statue of the Conquistadora.
“He cleans up right nice,” Lynae imitated the TV cliché. “We carried the statue with us from Santa Fé, and protected it as a holy relic. Even though it took up precious space in the cargo wagon, it was hidden there with tenderness and faith, as if it were the saint herself. Hidalgo was working as notary for the friars when he got caught with Father Pío on the trail.”
Brent added, “Later he’ll act as an interpreter for the Pecos when Vargas returns to Santa Fé in 1692.”
"It would be interesting to keep you two around.” Brent jumped, startled by the sudden sound of his voice. “From what I hear you seem to think you know the future. I understand that you may be leaving us soon." Captain Chávez surprised the two siblings as he approached from behind overhearing the last of their conversation. Patting Brent on the shoulder, he asked curiously. "Just what family do you come from, and where were you living when you happened to cross paths with those who murdered Father Pío?"
Brent shrugged casually under the hardened hand and cleared his throat. “We are members of the Cristoval Baca Family, of Santa Fe,” he explained proudly. We were out on an afternoon adventure and got caught in the raid. We are grateful to you and your men for bringing us back together." He said in all seriousness. Lynae stifled a giggle and managed to turn it into a sort of cough.
The captain took it as a gesture of thanks and nodded. "You are very brave young people, we are proud to know you as members of our family and community. I hope you will have no further reason to be frightened while you are among us."
"Speaking of fear," Brent said, turning suddenly to Lynae with a startled glance as if stepping from a dream, "we'd better get this mess cleaned up before Dad and Gina come back, they are the ones who will kill us if they find this mud all over the kitchen sink."
"I'm sorry, Brent. I know you didn't want to go there -- to that time." Lynae apologized sincerely.
"No sweat. It was kind of fun!” he shrugged and grinned.“ But I think you better stop reading Twelve Days in August. I wouldn't want to live through that again.”
Then, after a brief pause, “does it say what happened to the Indians after the war? I mean, I know the Spaniards settled in El Paso for about twelve years until they made the Reconquest and resettled in Santa Fe, but what about the converted Christian natives who survived the rebellion?"
"Well, if you're sure you can handle it, I'll tell you what the New Mexico History book says. I'll read it to you while you clean up the mess. Lynae straightened the braid at the back of her head and fingered the knots in her rope belt as she began to read:[7]
“Serious trouble soon arose among the Indians over the divisions of the spoils of war. Within less than two years after Oterman's retreat the Taos and Picures were engaged in war with each other. Soon war broke out between the Tiguas and Queres. The fate of the Piros was their extermination as a tribe. During the period of twelve years during which the Pueblos maintained their freedom, this state of affairs continued almost without interruption, with peace between two or more tribes a rarity. Alternate periods of hostility and warfare and of friendship and peace continued with the resulting death from war, famine and disease decreased the number of Pueblos by half.
“The success of the uprising of 1680 had been due to the weakness of the Spaniards and the suddenness with which the blow fell. But the lack of social political and military organization among these Indians more than undermined their strength. At that time, nowhere on the American continent had conceptions of government risen above tribes or confederacies of tribes, such as the organization of the Six nations of New York State, more commonly known as the Iroquois. The Pueblo Indians had not even adopted this primitive idea of confederacy. On the contrary each tribe maintained its isolated independent position, except to form occasional temporary alliances which were dissolved the moment the object for which they had been formed was attained.
“So long as the Spanish conquerors ruled, peaceful relations among the various pueblos continued. But when the temporary union seemed no longer indispensable, the victorious Indians, as tribes were rent by dissension.
“To add to their miserable condition they constantly had to face dangers of attack from the unfriendly nomadic tribes. As soon as the whites had been driven from the country by the Pueblos, the Apaches, the Utes and the Navajos began a systematic campaign of attacking the scattered villages. They were absolutely without mercy. Knowing that the Pueblo Indians could no longer look to the whites for defense against their hereditary foes, they began a war of extermination on the various semi-civilized tribes.
“The Utes slaughtered and killed the Taos and Picures because of their geographical location. The Pecos and Tehas were killed by Apaches. The western Pueblos were destroyed by the Navajos. No longer did the Pueblo Indians find a military post to which they could flock for protection under Spanish rule. Now, they found themselves without moral support or guidance. The constantly active savage enemies remembered the past in the present and had learned much of the science of warfare from the white intruders.
“Even with the obvious advantages of being under Spanish rule, and the many disadvantages of their isolated position, the town tribes seemed to have no desire for the return to the Spanish rule. The excitement induced by bloody conflict had a strange hold upon them. Not only was the savage instinct rapidly on the on the rise, so far as lust for revenge was concerned, but the freedom gained renewed their devotion to the strange pagan religion.”
"I guess that means they returned to the worship of Gadianton and the old idols." Lynae said closing the history book, and inspecting the kitchen area to be sure Brent had done her job correctly.

[1] Most the history and quotations and paraphrasing in this chapter are taken from 12 Days in August (from 12 days in August, The Pueblo Revolt in Santa Fé, by Joseph P. Sanchez pp 39-50)
Other background information is taken from New Mexico, and History pp 20-24
[2]An evil character who appears in the Book of Mormon, who under the direction of Satin, organized a secret society for the purpose of evil, which lasted over many generations, reappearing from time to time throughout the history.
[3] The Book of Mormon was translated by Joseph Smith from Gold plates which contained the history of a population that began in the Western Hemisphere 600 B.C. The two leading brothers split and their descendants became enemies. The dark skinned group were called Lamanites and the fair skinned group were Nephites.
[4] 12 days in August, pp 39-50. Direct quotes and paraphrasing from these pages are indicated by a change of font.

37 12 Days
[6] Origins p 47, and 12 Days
[7] History of New Mexico