The Araucaniad

Canto IV

  [ 39 ] Canto IV Fourteen Spaniards come by concert to join Valdivia at the fort of Tucapel. They find the Indians in ambush, with whom they have a ferocious encounter. Lautaro arrives with reinforcements. Seven Spaniards die, as well as all the Indian friends, yanaconas, that they took. The others escape, to their great good fortune. Lo, no dearth of meaty matter Here to keep my pen-point busy! But these depths I shall not fathom, So irrelevant and risky. Time will tell, and not my writings, Which perhaps may breed suspicion. I shall merely cite the proverb: “Wrongs abound where kings are absent.” Winging back unto our subject, I shall cease to treat of trifles; Wasting speech on desert whirlwinds Is a thankless, vain endeavour. I shall say that our men struggled With intemperate savage squadrons, Earning fame and lustrous glory, Doing deeds that bless remembrance. Notable, these exploits merit Licensed pens and much attention, And I say that he who reads them Will admit their claim to grandeur. In my style shall I recount them, Though ’twill be a brief summation And I list the names of soldiers Who should loud be praised, and rightly. Córdova, Cortés, Nereda, Maldonado, Escalona, Peñalona, Castañeda, Niño, Morán, Gonzalo Hernández, Brave Vergara and Almagro, Tough Herrero and García, Leonardo, Lord Manrique, Counted last, but peer of first ones; How surpassing good is justice, Warding off a thousand evils! If the Indians were rebellious And at odds with all their neighbors, If their fury seethed and bubbled, ’Twas because they were unpunished From the first. Fresh wounds unbandaged At the end require rough treatment. Vile, neglectful vice, not virtue, Makes us wait till harm grows greater, Shun the iron tools of healing. If the ailment calls for violence, Be not so severe that mercy Loses virtuous force completely! He is clement who, unflinching, Saves the arm, and lops the finger. I do not insist that justice Steel its hand at every juncture, But according to the graveness Of the case, and scope of illness. Present plight, we see, resulted Finally from greed and malice. Mischief plunged its roots too deeply, Overtopping sensate judgment. Fickle fools we should not mimic, Knaves who yield to first impulses, Making judges seem inhuman, Spilling blood for acclamation, Or the ones whose hearts unjustly Without cause or sound foundation Through sheer vanity and pertness Wish their wickedness remembered. [ 40 ] The Araucaniad These grandees who came proposing To rejoin Valdivia’s concert Quit Imperial, the village, Mindless of Valdivia’s murder. Up they climbed Purén’s steep summit. From their pinnacle and prospect, Roads they saw bestrewn with branches, Sign of soldiers met for payment. They surmised the land was altered, Fraught with Indians on the warpath, But their journey was not jaded, Nor did fear choke resolution. Dawn of freshness newly colored Gave contentment with its coming. Sun dispelled the shades when marchers Spied the Valley of Licura. Here the Indians lurked in ambush Waiting for our band’s arrival, Whom they thought to catch, disordered, Ere they grew aware of danger. They were buried in the brushwood So that they might have concealment, And by ruse that none suspected From safe coverts work their mischief. Down the fourteen Spaniards hastened, Down the slope and toward the valley Where the savages lay hidden, Waiting, covered o’er with leafage. Ours had not yet reached the thicket When the Indians, beating, blowing Tabor drums and hoarse-lunged trumpets Occupied the roads and passes. No such joy elates the huntsman When the unexpected rabbit Suddenly athwart his pathway Darts between his legs, excited, As the yelling apparition Of the nearby squad in ambush Caused our Spaniards, who that instant Whipped ahead their restive chargers. In a flash the flushed assassins Formed a diamond wall’s triangle, But the Spaniards did not halt, till They had broken through this barrier. Trampling men, and pikes, and maces, Back they turned to end the battle, Trusting more to brawn than hoping They might master odds so fearsome. Two of three such harassed columns Blocked their flight and ringed their passage. By barbarians encircled, Thinking they could cut an exit, They attacked, close-packed and serried. Though one squad they smote was broken, To their posts they ran, retreating, Badly wounded in that skirmish. Twice they charged with like impulsion, Stamping down the squads opposing, Fired with thought of death, and ever Hewing swaths of desolation...