An Old Soldier’s Lament

In the twilight of his life, an aging veteran of the Spanish conquests dipped his quill in ink and began a letter to his king. His hands, once steady on the hilt of a sword, now trembled slightly as he recounted memories of campaigns waged decades earlier in service of the crown. He spoke of marching under the royal banner through uncharted lands, of the clamor of armor and weapons, of loyalty that remained undimmed by time. This was Bernal Díaz del Castillo, one of the many foot soldiers of empire, writing not for reward or recognition—though he hoped for both—but so that history might hear his voice. He died in 1585, still waiting for the royal favor that never came.

Díaz represents a paradox at the heart of the Spanish conquest of the Americas: while a few leaders became legends, the vast majority of those who fought, explored, and colonized the New World faded into obscurity. They were the architects of an empire they would never truly own, their deeds overshadowed by the towering reputations of commanders like Hernán Cortés and Francisco Pizarro.

The Age of Conquest: Origins and Ambitions

The Spanish conquest of the Americas did not begin as a coordinated imperial project. It emerged from a combination of personal ambition, religious fervor, and geopolitical opportunism. By the late 15th century, the Reconquista had concluded, leaving many minor nobles and soldiers without purpose or prospects. The discovery of the New World by Columbus in 1492 offered a new frontier—a place where glory, gold, and God could be pursued with sword in hand.

Most of these men came from Extremadura, an arid, impoverished region in western Spain. Its harsh landscape produced hardened people, ambitious and desperate enough to gamble their lives on expeditions into the unknown. They were not uniform in background: some were illegitimate sons of minor nobles, others were barely literate adventurers, and a few were educated men who abandoned comfortable futures for the allure of the Indies.

Titans of the New World: Cortés and Pizarro

Hernán Cortés, born in Medellín, Extremadura, was the illegitimate son of a minor noble. He studied law at Salamanca but soon grew restless. Leaving university, he briefly served in the Spanish military, dreaming of making his name in the Italian wars. Instead, he found himself drawn to the newly established colonies in the Caribbean. By 1519, he was leading an expedition to Mexico, where he would eventually conquer the Aztec Empire through a combination of diplomacy, deception, and force.

Francisco Pizarro, born in Trujillo, also in Extremadura, was an illiterate swineherd in his youth. Like Cortés, he was illegitimate and hungry for legitimacy. After a stint in Italy, he followed his uncle to the Caribbean. He rose to a minor administrative post in Panama but craved more. In 1529, he secured royal approval to conquer Peru, and within a few years, he had toppled the Inca Empire with a handful of men.

Both men became icons in their own lifetimes. Cortés was celebrated for his tactical brilliance and political savvy; Pizarro, for his sheer audacity. They were hailed as the “right and left arms” of Emperor Charles V, and their names became synonymous with the Spanish colonial project.

The Struggle for Recognition: Lesser-Known Conquistadors

For every Cortés or Pizarro, there were dozens of commanders who led expeditions, founded towns, pacified regions, and expanded Spanish dominion—yet whose names are largely forgotten. Men like Pedro de Alvarado, who conquered Guatemala; Francisco de Montejo, who subdued the Yucatán; and Hernando de Soto, who explored the southeastern United States, played critical roles in the creation of New Spain.

The conquest was not a monolithic enterprise but a series of overlapping, often competing, private ventures. Leaders jockeyed for favor, titles, and encomiendas—grants of native labor—while their soldiers hoped for a share of the plunder. The competition was fierce, and the stakes were high. Failure could mean death; success did not always guarantee reward.

Bernal Díaz del Castillo was one of many who felt overlooked. In his letters and in his famous chronicle, The True History of the Conquest of New Spain, he argued that the credit given to Cortés ought to be shared with the rank-and-file soldiers who fought alongside him. His plea was not just about vanity; it was about economic survival. Without royal favor, many conquistadors lived out their days in poverty, their services to the crown forgotten.

The Third Great Conquistador: A Contentious Title

Among the secondary leaders, one figure stood out in his own estimation: Gonzalo Jiménez de Quesada. In a 1576 letter to the king, he declared himself the third greatest conquistador, behind only Cortés and Pizarro. He had led the expedition that conquered the Muisca Confederation in modern-day Colombia, founding the city of Santa Fe de Bogotá. Some contemporary chroniclers, such as Vargas Machuca, gave him significant attention, but history has been less kind.

Jiménez de Quesada’s claim to third place was challenged by others—Alvarado, Montejo, Soto—each with their own achievements and advocates. The debate was about more than bragging rights; it was about legacy, land, and pensions. In the end, Jiménez de Quesada, like Díaz, died without the recognition he believed he deserved.

Cultural and Social Impacts of the Conquest

The Spanish conquest irrevocably altered the Americas. Indigenous societies were dismantled, their populations decimated by disease and violence. New cultures emerged, blending Spanish and native elements in language, religion, and custom. The conquistadors were not just warriors; they were the agents of this transformation.

They established the first European cities in the Americas, introduced new crops and livestock, and imposed Spanish law and Catholicism. Their actions laid the foundation for a colonial system that would endure for three centuries. Yet their legacy is deeply ambiguous. They were celebrated as heroes in Spain but often reviled in the lands they conquered.

The conquistadors also shaped Spain’s self-image. They became symbols of national prowess, their exploits chronicled in plays, poems, and official histories. Yet their successes masked a darker reality: the conquest was brutal, greedy, and often chaotic. The crown struggled to control its far-flung agents, and many of the worst excesses were committed without royal sanction.

Legacy and Modern Relevance

Today, the conquistadors are remembered differently across the Americas. In Mexico, Cortés is a controversial figure, revered by some as a founder and reviled by others as a destroyer. In Peru, Pizarro’s name still stirs strong emotions. The lesser-known figures have faded even further from memory, their contributions overlooked in favor of the two great captains.

Yet their stories remain relevant. They speak to themes of ambition, violence, and the often-unfair distribution of glory. They remind us that history is written by the winners—but not all winners are equally remembered.

The conquistadors also left a documentary legacy. Men like Díaz and Jiménez de Quesada wrote chronicles that provide invaluable, if biased, accounts of the conquest. These texts allow us to hear the voices of the participants, to understand their motivations and their regrets.

In the end, the conquistadors were products of their time: brave, cruel, pious, and avaricious. They built an empire that changed the world, but at a terrible cost. And for every name that echoes through history, there are countless others, like Bernal Díaz del Castillo, who wait in the shadows, hoping still to be seen.