How Hernán Cortés Outfoxed the Crown and Changed History

The encomienda was one of those delightfully devious little arrangements that make you wonder if the Spanish conquerors were just power-hungry adventurers or if they held a secret postgraduate degree in bureaucratic oppression. For those unfamiliar, the encomienda system was essentially a state-sponsored exploitation mechanism where indigenous labor was siphoned off for the benefit of Spanish colonizers, all under the sanctimonious guise of civilization and religion. It originated in the Antilles, that sun-soaked cradle of conquest, and eventually spread its tentacles across the Americas, leaving behind a legacy of colonial ingenuity and indigenous misery.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. The whole thing didn’t just appear out of thin air, like a conquistador pulling gold from a headdress. It was, in fact, a bit of a compromise—a sordid love child born of necessity, greed, and a sprinkling of royal hypocrisy. The Spanish Crown initially balked at the idea. “The Indians are free and vassals of the king,” King Ferdinand the Catholic declared, presumably while seated on a gold-encrusted throne financed by other questionable colonial practices. But words are just that—words—and what Ferdinand said with one side of his mouth, Hernán Cortés managed to twist with the other.

Cortés was no fool. He was a man who understood the value of both a well-sharpened sword and a well-timed argument. He sweet-talked the Catholic Monarchs into greenlighting the encomienda in 1528 by framing it as the ultimate triple win: conquerors got rewards, the colony got stability, and the royal treasury got a fresh influx of cash. What monarch could resist such a deal? Especially when said monarch had an empire to maintain and an endless appetite for New World riches. And so, with a regal nod, the encomienda was officially born in New Spain.

What followed was a veritable land grab of epic proportions, with conquistadors carving up indigenous communities like slices of a particularly lucrative pie. By 1530, towns in northern and northwestern New Spain were neatly divvied up among Cortés’s cronies. Pedro Núñez de Chávez got Xiquipilco, Juan de la Torre snagged Ixtlahuaca, Alonso de Ávila bagged Almoloya (also known as Tlalchichilpa), and Francisco de Villegas lorded over Jocotitlán and Atlacomulco. It was a veritable who’s who of colonial plundering.

But then, as with all good schemes, the cracks began to show. Between 1530 and 1550, the encomiendas gradually slipped out of the hands of individual conquistadors and back into the clutches of the Crown. Why? Because even monarchs aren’t above a bit of micromanagement when there’s money involved. By reclaiming these encomiendas, the Crown could streamline tax collection, ensure (or at least pretend to ensure) the welfare of the indigenous population, and establish a new system of governance. Enter the corregimientos—administrative units tasked with overseeing local justice and squeezing out every last ounce of tribute.

These corregimientos didn’t last long, mind you. By 1550, they were replaced by mayoralties, which were essentially bigger, badder corregimientos with even more bureaucratic teeth. These mayoralties weren’t just about justice; they were about control—regional capitals tasked with managing sprawling jurisdictions and keeping the wheels of colonial exploitation well-oiled and turning.

Now, you might be wondering: was there a military angle to all this? You bet there was. According to the historian Gunter Kahle, the encomienda system had its roots in a royal provision issued by Queen Isabel in 1503. At the time, the Spanish hadn’t fully settled in the Antilles, and the idea was to ensure a steady flow of labor and tribute from indigenous chiefs. Each chief was made responsible for ensuring that his people coughed up their fair share of taxes—or, more accurately, rendered their services to the Spanish overlords. It was colonialism with a military twist, a way of keeping the local population subservient while simultaneously funding the next wave of conquests.

Protection, Religion, and... Crossbows?

After the swords stopped clashing and the cannons stopped booming, the Spanish Crown faced a problem. The conquistadors, having trampled their way across the Americas in search of fame and fortune, were now lounging about with nothing to do but eye each other’s ill-gotten gains. This was bad news for the Crown. Idle conquerors meant potential rebellion—or worse, demands for payment.

The solution? Keep these restless adventurers busy and invested in the colonial project. Thus, the encomienda system was given a shiny new mandate. The encomenderos—those fortunate conquistadors who’d been entrusted with indigenous communities—were now officially required to protect their wards and ensure their spiritual education. On paper, it all sounds terribly noble: Spanish knights galloping to the rescue of their indigenous charges, all while ensuring they learned their Pater Noster.

But there was a catch—and what a catch it was. The Crown didn’t hand out these responsibilities for free. Alongside their religious and protective duties, encomenderos had to cough up something in return. Specifically, they were required to arm themselves to the teeth. Hernán Cortés, ever the pragmatist, decreed in 1524 that every encomendero in New Spain should be battle-ready. This wasn’t a polite suggestion; it was a hard-and-fast rule with fines attached.

Let’s break this down. If you were an encomendero with fewer than 50 Indians under your care, your shopping list was relatively modest: a lance, a sword, a dagger, two poles, a helmet, a crossbow, and an arquebus. Forget one item, and it would cost you two gold pesos—a sum that could buy you quite a few indulgences back home.

But if you were in charge of a larger workforce—say, 500 to 1,000 Indians—things got considerably more expensive. In addition to all the above, you needed a horse and its full trappings. And if you thought you could skimp on quality, think again. The weapons and equipment had to be in “good condition,” because heaven forbid anyone turn up to a colonial skirmish with a rusty sword.

And for the big fish, the encomenderos with more than 2,000 Indians? The requirements grew even heftier. These lords of the frontier were essentially expected to outfit their own private armies, complete with all the necessary war gear. Failure to comply with any of these regulations didn’t just mean fines—it meant the ultimate punishment: losing all your Indians. And that, dear reader, was a fate worse than death for these men, as their wealth and status depended entirely on the backs of their indigenous laborers.

Now, you might be thinking, “Why not just station a permanent army in the colonies?” That, of course, is a reasonable question. And Cortés, in his infinite wisdom, had an answer ready for King Charles V. In a letter dated October 15, 1524, Cortés laid out his reasoning with the kind of slick justification that would make any modern politician proud.

A standing army, he explained, was an economic impossibility. Keeping soldiers fed, armed, and motivated was ruinously expensive. And let’s be honest, no one was volunteering to ship fresh troops across the Atlantic when they could stay in Spain, sipping wine and tilting at windmills. The encomienda system, Cortés argued, was the perfect solution. By arming the encomenderos and requiring them to fight when called upon, the Crown could secure its colonies without footing the bill for a full-time military.

It was, as Cortés would have it, a win-win-win. The encomenderos got to keep their wealth and status, the Crown got a ready-made militia, and the indigenous population—well, they got “protection” and religious education. Let’s not dwell too much on who came out worst in this arrangement.

The genius of the encomienda system, if you can call it that, lay in its sheer efficiency. Why bother maintaining an army when you could outsource your defense to the very people benefiting most from the colonies? It was colonialism on a budget, the 16th-century equivalent of a zero-hours contract: you only had to fight when you were needed, and you were expected to supply your own kit.

But let’s not romanticize it. For all its supposed practicality, the encomienda was ultimately just another cog in the vast machinery of exploitation. The indigenous population bore the brunt of the labor, the fines, and the violence. And while the encomenderos may have styled themselves as noble protectors, they were little more than warlords with a royal mandate.

A Hierarchy of Convenience

While most people see the encomienda as a straightforward tale of Spanish exploitation, there’s another layer here—a subplot, if you will, featuring indigenous nobility playing a role that’s as unexpected as it is fascinating. As Charles Gibson so eloquently explains, the encomienda wasn’t just a Spanish imposition; it was also a reshuffling of indigenous power structures. Yes, it was still exploitation—let’s not sugarcoat it—but it had a touch of Machiavellian genius that makes you almost admire the sheer audacity of it all.

Unlike the encomienda system of the Antilles, which focused on towns and their populations, the New Spain version had a more personalized twist. Instead of simply designating a town to serve the Spanish, the encomienda became a matter of assigning indigenous lords—the elite leaders of native communities—along with their followers. These lords, now elevated to something akin to colonial middle managers, were tasked with funneling tribute and labor to their Spanish encomendero.

In practice, it was like declaring one village as the “head office” and appointing the local bigwig as the CEO. But the indigenous towns paying tribute didn’t owe their allegiance to the Spanish overlord directly. No, their loyalty remained with their principal lord—the very same indigenous leader who was now essentially working as a subcontractor for the encomendero.

Genius, isn’t it? The Spanish got their gold, labor, and agricultural goods, but they didn’t have to get their hands dirty dealing with every tiny village. Instead, they outsourced the messy business of tribute collection to the existing indigenous nobility. It was colonialism, yes, but with a side of delegation that would make any modern CEO green with envy.

But nothing lasts forever, does it? Over the course of the 16th century, this balancing act began to wobble. As more and more encomiendas returned to the Crown—usually after the original encomendero shuffled off this mortal coil—the indigenous tribute system started shifting away from private pockets and into royal coffers.

The Spanish Crown, ever the opportunist, was more than happy to redirect this wealth into its own treasury. After all, why should some grubby conquistador enjoy the fruits of indigenous labor when the king could use those same resources to fund wars, palaces, and the occasional extravagant banquet?

But this wasn’t just a financial coup; it was a political one. The rise of civil governance in New Spain during the second half of the 16th century gradually eroded the power of the encomenderos and their indigenous allies. The viceroy, oidores (judges), members of the audiencia (colonial court), and local magistrates (corregidores) increasingly took control of the colonies. Bit by bit, they squeezed out the encomenderos, turning them from powerful feudal lords into historical footnotes.

And what of the indigenous nobility, those once-mighty lords who’d been co-opted into this colonial game? Well, their fortunes were a mixed bag. Some adapted to their new roles, maintaining a semblance of authority by working within the Spanish system. Others found their influence dwindling as the Crown’s bureaucrats consolidated power.

In the end, the encomienda became a shadow of its former self. What began as a cunning partnership between Spanish conquerors and indigenous leaders dissolved into a bureaucratic tangle of royal officials and legal regulations. The indigenous nobility, once integral to the system, became little more than relics of a bygone era.

What’s truly remarkable about the encomienda is how it highlights the Spanish Crown’s ability to manipulate power dynamics for its own benefit. By co-opting indigenous leaders and pitting them against their own people, the Spanish effectively turned native hierarchies into tools of colonial control. At the same time, they kept the conquistadors in check by slowly stripping them of their authority and replacing them with a sprawling civil government.

It’s like watching a medieval chess match where the king sacrifices his knights to gain total control of the board. And while it’s easy to criticize the Crown’s motives, you can’t help but marvel at the sheer audacity of it all.

In-text Citation: (Ramírez González & López Alcántara, 2018, pp. 31-34)