Alchemy

We landed in Peru in ignorance. We had advanced in uncertainty. Our ignorance was the hope of the gambler; our uncertainty the Indian’s guile. We had advanced from our base, San Miguel, four days towards the mountains. Four days and we were still unsure of ourselves and the future. Nobody knew the state of Pizarro’s mind, not even his brothers. It was common knowledge that he was never ready with a decision, and yet when forced he always managed to reach what proved to be a wise course of action. Generally he watched the brew of circumstance like a witch and let its smell tell him what to do. This was no longer possible. The progress of the little army’s advance was such that all acts must be as quick and bold as the decision Pizarro, as Governor and General, had made at San Miguel, or all was lost.

I said four days. My statement may mislead you. We were four marches from San Miguel up the valley of the Piura, and it was always up that we marched. We were traveling in those low hills which from the coastal desert look as high as any mountain does in Spain but no more than broken ground before the bare and repulsive Cordillera supplanting the earth behind them. And so you must not think that it was that last bit of marching our army did—one hundred and seventy-seven men in all: sixty-seven cavalry, twenty crossbowmen, and three arquebusiers—which was responsible for our state of mind. We had been in Peru over five months.