(p. 56):

The Pilgrims were typical in their lack of preparation. Expeditions from France and Spain were usually backed by the state, and generally staffed by soldiers accustomed to hard living. English voyages, by contrast, were almost always funded by venture capitalists who hoped for a quick cash-out. Like Silicon Valley in the heyday of the Internet bubble, London was the center of a speculative mania about the Americas. As with the dot-com boom, a great deal of profoundly fractured cerebration occurred. Decades after first touching the Americas, London's venture capitalists still hadn't figured out that New England is colder than Britain despite being farther south. Even when they focused on a warmer place like Virginia, they persistently selected as colonists people ignorant of farming; multiplying the difficulties, the would-be colonizers were arriving int he middle of a severe, multi-year drought. As a result, Jamestown and the other Virginia forays survived on Indian charity -- they were "utterly dependent and therefore controllable," in the phrase of Karen Ordahl Kuppermann, a New York University historian. The same held true for my ancestor's crew in Plymouth.

(p. 61):

Until the sickness Massasoit had directly ruled a community of several thousand and held sway over a confederation of as many as twenty thousand. Now his group was reduced to sixty people and the entire confederation to fewer than a thousand. The Wampanoag, wrote Salisbury, the Smith historian, came to the obvious logical conclusion: "their deities had allied against them."

The Pilgrims held similar views. Governor Bradford is said to have attributed the plague to "the good hand of God," which "favored our beginnings" by "sweeping away great multitudes of the natives . . . that he might make room for us." Indeed, more than fifty of the first colonial villages in New England were located on Indian communities emptied by disease. The epidemic, Gorges said, left the land "without any [people] to disturb or appease our free and peaceable possession thereof, from when we may justly conclude, that GOD made the way to effect his work."

(p. 67):

Massasoit shepherded his people through the wave of settlement, and the pact he signed with Plymouth lasted for more than fifty years. Only in 1675 did one of his sons, angered at being pushed around by colonists' laws, launch what was perhaps an inevitable attack. Indians from dozens of groups joined in. The conflict, brutal and sad, tore through New England.

The Europeans won. Historians attribute part of the victory to Indian unwillingness to match the European tactic of massacring whole villages. Another reason for the newcomers' triumph was that by that time they outnumbered the natives. Groups like the Narragansett, which had been spared by the epidemic of 1616, were crushed by a smallpox epidemic in 1633. A third to half of the remaining Indians in New England died. The People of the First Light could avoid or adapt to European technology but not European disease. Their societies were destroyed by weapons their opponents could not control and did not even know they had.

(pp. 80-81):

Not only did Pachakuti reconfigure the capital, he laid out the institutions that characterized Tawantinsuyu itself. For centuries, villagers had spent part of their time working in teams on community projects. Alternately bullying and cajoling, Pachakuti expanded the service obligation unrecognizably. In Tawantinsuyu, he decreed, all land and property belonged to the state (indeed, to the Inka himself). Peasants thus had to work periodically for the empire as farmers, herders, weavers, masons, artisans, miners, or soldiers. Often crews spent months away from home. While they were on the road, the state fed, clothed, and housed them -- all from goods supplied by other work crews. Conscripts built dams, terraces, and irrigation canals; they grew crops on state land and raised herds on state pastures and made pots in state factories and stocked hundreds of state warehouses; they paved the highways and supplied the runners and llamas carrying messages and goods along them. Dictatorially extending Andean verticality, the imperium shuttled people and material in and out of every Andean crevice.

Not the least surprising feature of this economic system was that it functioned without money. True, the lack of currency did not surprise the Spanish invaders -- much of Europe did without money until the eighteenth century. But the Inka did not even have markets. Economists would predict that this nonmarket economy -- vertical socialism, it has been called -- should produce gross inefficiencies. These surely occurred, but the errors were of surplus, not want. The Spanish invaders were stunned to find warehouses overflowing with untouched cloth and supplies. But to the Inka the brimming coffers signified prestige and plenty; it was all part of the plan. Most important, Tawantinsuyu "managed to eradicate hunger," the Peruvian novelist Mario Vargas Llosa noted. Though no fan of the Inka, he conceded that "only a very small number of empires throughout the whole world have succeeded in achieving this feat."

(pp. 97-98):

Virgin-soil death rates for smallpox are hard to establish because for the last century most potential research subjects have been vaccinated. But a study in the early 1960s of seven thousand unvaccinated smallpox cases in southern India found that the disease killed 43 percent of its victims. Noting the extreme vulnerability of Andean populations -- they would not even have known to quarantine victims, as Europeans had -- Dobyns hypothesized that the empire's population "may well have been halved during this epidemic." In about three years, that is, as many as one out of two people in Tawantinsuyu died.

The human and social costs are beyond measure. Such overwhelming traumas tear at the bonds that hold cultures together. The epidemic that struck Athens in 430 B.C., Thucydides reported, enveloped the city in "a great degree of lawlessness." The people "became contemptuous of everything, both sacred and profane." They joined ecstatic cults and allowed sick refugees to desecrate the great temples, where they died untended. A thousand years later the Black Death shook Europe to its foundations. Martin Luther's rebellion against Rome was a grandson of the plague, as was modern anti-Semitism. Landowners' fields were emptied by death, forcing them either to work peasants harder or pay more to attract new labor. Both choices led to social unrest: the Jacquerie (France, 1358), the Revolt of Ciompi (Florence, 1378), the Peasants' Revolt (England, 1381), the Catalonian Rebellion (Spain, 1395), and dozens of flare-ups in the German states. Is it necessary to spell out that societies mired in fratrical chaos are vulnerable to conquest? To borrow a trope from the historian Alfred Crosby, if Genghis Khan had arrived with the Black Death, this book would not be written in a European language.

(pp. 101-102):

Between the sixteenth and eighteenth centuries, this pattern occurred again and again in the Americas. It was a kind of master narrative of postcontact history. In fact, Europeans routinely lost when they could not take advantage of disease and political fragmentation. Conquistadors tried to take Florida half a dozen times between 1510 and 1560 -- and failed each time. In 1532 King João III of Portugal divided the coast of Brazil into fourteen provinces and dispatched colonists to each one. By 1550 only two settlements survived. The French were barely able to sustain trading posts in the St. Lawrence and didn't even try to plant their flag in pre-epidemic New England. European microorganisms were slow to penetrate the Yucatán Peninsula, where most of the Maya polities were too small to readily play off against each other. In consequence, Spain never fully subdued the Maya. The Zapatista rebellion that convulsed southern Mexico in the 1990s was merely the most recent battle in an episodic colonial war that began in the sixteenth century.

(pp. 109-110):

Pigs were as essential to the conquistadors as horses. Spanish armies traveled in a porcine cloud; drawn by the supper trough, the lean, hungry animals circled the troops like darting dogs. Neither species regarded the arrangement as novel; they had lived together in Europe for millennia. When humans and domesticated animals share quarters, they are constantly exposed to each other's microbes. Over time mutation lets animal diseases jump to people: avian influenza becomes human influenza, bovine rinderpest becomes human measles, horsepox becomes human smallpox. Unlike Europeans, Indians did not live in constant contact with many animals. They domesticated only the dog; the turkey (in Mesoamerica); and the llama, the alpaca, the Muscovy duck, and the guinea pig (in the Andes). In some ways this is not surprising: the New World had fewer animal candidates for taming than the Old. Moreover, few Indians carry the gene that permits adults to digest lactose, a form of sugar abundant in milk. Non-milk drinkers, one imagines, would be less likely to work at domesticating milk-giving animals. But this is guesswork. The fact is that what scientists call zoonotic disease was little known in the Americas. By contrast, swine, mainstays of European agriculture, transmit anthrax, brucellosis, leptospirosis, trichinosis, and tuberculosis. Pigs breed exuberantly and can pass diseases to deer and turkeys, which then can infect people. Only a few of De Soto's pigs would have had to wander off to contaminate the forest.

The calamity wreaked by the De Soto expedition, Ramenofsky and Galloway argued, extended across the whole Southeast. The societies of the Caddo, on the Texas-Arkansas border, and the Coosa, in western Georgia, both disintegrated soon after. The Caddo had a taste for monumental architecture: public plazas, ceremonial platforms, mausoleums. After De Soto's army left the Caddo stopped erecting community centers and began digging community cemeteries. Between the visits of De Soto and La Salle, according to Timothy K. Perttula, an archaeological consultant in Austin, Texas, the Caddoan population fell from about 200,000 to about 8,500 -- a drop of nearly 96 percent. In the eighteenth century, the tally shrank further to 1,400. An equivalent loss today would reduce the population of New York City to 56,000, not enough to fill Yankee Stadium. "That's one reason whites think of Indians as nomadic hunters," Russell Thornton, an anthropologist at the University of California at Los Angeles, said to me. "Everything else -- all the heavily populated urbanized societies -- was wiped out."

(pp. 116-117):

Actually, some Old World populations were just as vulnerable as Native Americans to those diseases, and likely for the same reason. Indians' closest genetic relatives are indigenous Siberians. They did not come into substantial contact with Europeans until the sixteenth century, when Russian fur merchants overturned their governments, established military outposts throughout the region, and demanded furs in tribute. In the train of the Russian fur market came Russian diseases, notably smallpox.

The parallels with the Indian experience are striking. In 1768 the virus struck Siberia's Pacific coast, apparently for the first time. "No one knows how many have survived," confessed the governor of Irkutsk, the Russian base on Lake Baikal, apparently because officials were afraid to travel to the affected area. A decade later, in 1779, the round-the-globe expedition of Captain James Cook reached Kamchatka, the long peninsula on the Pacific coast. The shoreline, British discovered, was a cemetery. "We every where met with the Ruins of large Villages with no Traces left of them but the Foundation of the Houses," lamented David Samwell, the ship's surgeon. "The Russians told us that [the villages] were destroyed by the small Pox." The explorer Martin Sauer, who visited Kamchatka five years after Cook's expedition, discovered that the Russian government had at last ventured into the former epidemic zone. Scarcely one thousand natives remained on the peninsula, according to official figures; the disease had claimed more than five thousand lives. The tally cannot be taken as exact, but the fact remains: a single epidemic kiled more than three of every four indigenous Siberians in that area.

(p. 140):

Tenochtitlan dazzled its invaders -- it was bigger than Paris, Europe's greatest metropolis. The Spaniards gawped like yokels at the wide streets, ornately carved buildings and markets bright with goods from hundreds of miles away. Boats flitted like butterflies around the three grand causeways that linked Tenochtitlan to the mainland. Long aqueducts conveyed water from the distant mountains across the lake and into the city. Even more astounding than the great temples and immense banners and colorful promenades were the botanical gardens -- none existed in Europe. The same novelty attended the force of a thousand men that kept the crowded streets immaculate. (Streets that weren't ankle-deep in sweage! The conquistadors had never conceived of such a thing.)

(pp. 181-182):

"Archaeologists are trapped in their own prejudices," Vine Deloria Jr., the Colorado political scientist, told me. The Berkeley geographer Carl Sauer first brought up overkill in the 1930s, he said. "It was immediately knocked down, because a lot of shellfish and little mammals also went extinct, and these mythical Pleistocene hit men wouldn't have wiped them out, too. But the supposedly objective scientific establishment likes the picture of Indians as ecological serial killers too much to let go of it."

To Deloria's way of thinking, not only overkill but the entire Clovis-first theory is a theoretical Rube Goldberg device. "There's this perfect moment when the ice-free corridor magically appears just before the land bridge is covered by water," he said. "And the paleo-Indians, who are doing fine in Siberia, suddenly decide to sprint over to Alaska. And then they sprint through the corridor, which just in time for them has been replenished with game. And they keep sprinting so fast that they overrun the hemisphere even faster than the Europeans did -- and this even though they didn't have horses, because they were so busy killing them all." He laughed. "And these are the same people who say traditional origin tales are improbable!"

Activist critiques like those from Denny and Deloria have had relatively little impact on mainstream archaeologists and anthropologists. In a sense, they were unnecessary: scientists themselves have launched such a sustained attack on the primacy of Clovis, the existence of the ice-free corridor, and the plausibility of overkill that the Clovis consensus has shattered, probably irrecoverably.

Actually, I still like the Clovis overkill theory, and nothing here convinces me otherwise -- indeed, the book has much more in favor of it than in opposition. I do suspect that the hunters had some microbial help, possibly advanced by Eurasian species that were spreading at the same time -- e.g., Eurasian bison replaced native American species. I don't see that hunters have to account for every member of every species -- all sorts of dislocations may lead to tipping points. But the pattern of extinctions following the first appearance of humans repeats without exception everywhere from Australia to New Zealand (they may seem close, but it took a long time to get from one to the other, about 40,000 years).

(pp. 196-197):

Mesoamerica would deserve its place in the human pantheon if its inhabitants had only created maize, in terms of harvest weight the world's most important crop. But the inhabitants of Mexico and northern Central America also developed tomatoes, now basic to Italian cuisine; peppers, essential to Thai and Indian food; all the world's squashes (except for a few domesticated in the United States); and many of the beans on dinner plates around the world. One writer has estimated that Indians developed three fifths of the crops now in cultivation, most of them in Mesoamerica. Having secured their food supply, Mesoamerican societies turned to intellectual pursuits. in a millennium or less, a comparatively short time, they invented their own writing, astronomy, and mathematics, including the zero.

(p. 224):

Maize had an equivalent impact on much of the rest of the world after Columbus introduced it to Europe. Central Europeans became especially hooked on it; by the nineteenth century, maize was the daily bread of Serbia, Rumania, and Moldavia. So dependent did northern Italy and southwestern France become on polenta, a type of cornmeal mush, that pellagra (caused by eating too much maize) became widespread. "I know little, if anything, pleasing to say about the people," wrote Goethe, who visited northern Italy in 1786. The women's "features indicated misery, and the children were just as pitiful to behold; the men are little better. . . . The cause of this sickly condition is found in the continued use of Turkish and heath corn."

Even greater was the impact in Africa, where maize was transforming agriculture by the end of the sixteenth century. "The probability is that the population of Africa was greatly increased because of maize and other American Indian crops," Alfred Crosby told me. "Those extra people helped make the slave trade possible." ("Other American Indian crops" included peanuts and manioc, both now African staples.) Maize swept into Africa as introduced disease was leveling Indian societies. Faced with a labor shortage, the Europeans turned their eyes to Africa. The continent's quarrelsome societies helped them siphon off millions of people. The maize-fed population boom, Crosby believes, let the awful trade continue without pumping the well dry.

(p. 324):

Agriculture, Meggers pointed out, depends on extracting the wealth of the soil. With little soil wealth to extract, she said, Amazonian farmers face inherent ecological limitations. The only form of agriculture they can practice for a long time is "slash-and-burn," or "swidden," as it is sometimes known. Farmers clear small fields with axes and machetes, burn off the chaff and refuse, and plant their seeds. The ash gives th soil a quick shot of nutrients, giving the crop a chance. As the crops grow, the jungle rapidly returns -- weeds first, then fast-growing tropical trees. In the few years before forest recovers the plot, farmers can eke something out of the land.

Slash-and-burn, Meggers told me, is "a superb response to ecological limits." Farmers grab a few harvests, but the soil is not bared to rain and sun long enough to incur permanent damage. Switching from field to field to field, swidden farmers live in the forest without destroying the ecosystem they depend on: a supple, balanced harmony. This ancient lifeway survives today, according to this theory, in the ring-shaped compounds of the Yanomamo. (Most of the Yanomamo actually live around South America's other huge river system, the Orinoco, but they are seen as emblematic of Amazonia as well.) Gliding nearly nude beneath the trees, cultivating their temporary gardens, the Yanomamo are often said to be windows into the past, living much the same lives as their great-great-great-grandparents. Their long-term existence has not damaged the forest, Meggers told me, a testament to slash-and-burn's power to keep human groups sustainably within the rigid ecological limits of the tropics.

Or maybe not (p. 337):

In the Amazon, the turn to swidden was unfortunate. Slash-and-burn cultivation has become one of the driving forces behind the loss of tropical forest. Although swidden does permit the forest to regrow, it is wildly inefficient and environmentally unsound. The burning sends up in smoke most of the nutrients in the vegetation -- almost all of the nitrogen and half the phosphorus and potassium. At the same time, it pours huge amounts of carbon dioxide into the air, a factor in global warming. (Large cattle ranches are the major offenders in the Amazon, but small-scale farmers are responsible for up to a third of the clearing.) Fortunately, it is a relatively new practice, which means it has not yet had much time to cause damage. More important, the very existence of so much healthy forest after twelve thousand years of use by large populations suggest that whatever Indians did before swidden must have been ecologically more sustainable.

(pp. 352-353):

A phenomenon much like ecological release can occur when a species suddenly loses its burden of predators. The advent of mechanized fishing in the 1920s drastically reduced the number of cod from the Gulf of Maine to the Grand Banks. With the cod gone, the sea urchins on which they fed had no enemies left. Soon a spiny carpet covered the bottom of the gulf. Sea urchins feed on kelp. As their populations boomed, they destroyed the area's kelp beds, creating what icthyologists call a "sea urchin barrens."

In this region,cod was the species that governed the overall composition of the ecosystem. The fish was, in ecological jargon, a "keystone" species: one "that affects the survival and abundance of many other species," in the definition of Harvard biologist Edward O. Wilson. Keystone species have disproportionate impact on their ecosystems. Removing them, Wilson explained, "results in a relatively significant shift int he composition of the [ecological] community."

(p. 360):

When disease swept Indians from the land, this entire ecoogical ancien régime collapsed. Hernando De Soto's expedition staggered through the Southeast for four years in the early sixteenth century and saw hordes of people but apparently didn't see a single bison. (No account describes them, and it seems unlikely that chroniclers would have failed to mention sighting such an extraordinary beast.) More than a century later the French explorer La Salle canoed down the Mississippi. Where De Soto had found prosperous cities La Salle encountered "a solitude unrelieved by the faintest trace of man," wrote the nineteenth-century historian Francis Parkman. Everywhere the French encountered bison, "grazing in herds on the great prairies which then bordered the river." When Indians died, the shaggy creatures vastly extended both their range and numbers, according to Valerius Geist, a bison researcher at the University of Calgary. "The post-Columbian abundance of bison," in his view, was largely due to "Eurasian diseases that decreased [Indian] hunting." The massive, thundering herds were pathological, something that the land had not seen before and was unlikely to see again.