The Woman in Red

by Diana Giovinazzo

  She shook her head as tears filled her eyes. “Then we will hide you. Yes, hide both you and the baby. No one will ever know.”

  I took her hands in mine. “I appreciate everything you have done for me. You’ve been a true friend to us, but my destiny and my child’s destiny are tied to José and the freedom of Rio Grande do Sul. We have to go where he goes.”

  She waved her hand in the air as if my words were an annoying fly. “Destiny is what we make of it.”

  “And I made mine a long time ago.” I hugged her. “Thank you, Antonia. You will never know how much you mean to us.”

  I climbed on my horse with Menotti tucked in close to me. As we came to the ridge overlooking the valley I dared to look back, just one more time. Golden rays broke through the dark gray clouds, accentuating the emerald-green trees. I knew I would never again see São Simão, my almost home. I kicked my horse and followed José to Rio Capivari.

  The road was lined with spring flowers bursting with vibrant hues of blue and gold. I smiled as I kissed my son’s bald head, though my joy faded as we entered Rio Capivari. Mud splashed up the sides of tents and gathered in puddles along our pathway. The men, stained with filth, watched us pass, their eyes dull and blank as they sat on empty crates. Despair hung in the air like a thick fog. Our once glorious army was now reduced to empty, frightened men. The women paused outside their tents, balancing baskets or children on their hips long enough to assess how much of a threat we were. The sunken cheeks of the children who played at their mothers’ feet made me shiver.

  We settled into our shack, a small building hastily constructed of loose boards. I was fearful that one wrong move would send it crashing down around us. My arms filled with excess dry goods to exchange for fresh clothing for the baby, I traipsed through the thick mud to the women of the camp.

  “You’re Senhora Garibaldi, aren’t you?” A woman eyed me, her black skin glowing under the bright Brazilian sun that broke through the rain clouds. The small child that she held on her hip grabbed her curly black hair with his tiny fist.

  “I am. May I ask who you are?”

  “My former masters called me ‘girl,’ but I choose to call myself Pedrina.” Her almond-shaped eyes narrowed as she scanned me from head to foot, disdain evident in her sneer. “We aren’t interested in charity.”

  “I was hoping to exchange these.”

  Pedrina leaned over and pulled at the sling that held Menotti to my chest. “You need fresh swaddling. Without it your baby is bound to get a rash. Especially out here.” She sucked at her teeth while she watched me. “What do you have to give me for my swaddling?”

  “Tea, dry beans, and a little bit of soap.”

  Pedrina sat back on her heels. “I’ll trade you some swaddling for the beans.” She turned her head and called out to one of the other women. “Imelda! Have any extra blankets for a baby?”

  A stout woman with a mess of children, Imelda pried off the child who was clinging to her skirts before slinking over to us. She examined me, then looked to her friend. “Maybe. What can I get for it?”

  “Tea or soap. I already took her beans.”

  Imelda spit to the side. “No need for soap out here.” She eyed her friend. “I could have used those beans.”

  “Then you should have gotten here sooner.”

  Imelda turned back to me. “It gets cold here at night. I’ll give you one of my blankets for your tea.”

  I turned over my goods. While Imelda inspected her tea, Pedrina said, “I heard about you and your husband.”

  “You wouldn’t be the first,” I said, growing uneasy about where the conversation might lead.

  Pedrina shielded her eyes from the sun. “Your husband’s the reason why I am a free woman right now.”

  I tried to hide the surprise that threatened to spread across my face. “How so?”

  “He told Benito Gonçalves that he wouldn’t join his army unless he freed the slaves.”

  “Oh,” I responded, feeling relief. “My husband and I share the same feelings on the matter. He says a country cannot call itself free if its people are bound in the barbarous act of slavery.”

  At this point Imelda found her way back to our conversation. “My cousin told me she witnessed Garibaldi pulling a drowning slave out of a river. Is it true?”

  I’d never heard the story before, but I affirmed the tale all the same. The women smiled. “You and your family are welcome back here anytime.”

  When I walked through the door of our small shack, I found José shuffling some papers on our bed while Rossetti leaned against the wall, eating an orange. I asked the men about the story. Rossetti choked on his food. “Where did you hear about that?” he asked, trying to compose himself.

  “The women,” I responded.

  “Right, the women. Always the women.” Rossetti turned to José with a slight smile. “Back in Rio de Janeiro I was always pulling your husband out of trouble. Whether it be with a magistrate or someone’s husband.”

  “Someone’s husband?” I questioned, looking from José to Rossetti.

  “There was only the one,” my husband grumbled, not looking up at us.

  “Only the one that was married, but I distinctly remember there being a number of fathers and brothers quite unhappy with you fraternizing with their daughters and sisters.”

  “Rossetti,” José began, looking up from his papers, “I would appreciate it if you didn’t tell my wife all about my wanton youth.”

  “I’m sorry,” Rossetti said, slipping the last bit of orange into his mouth and slowly chewing. My husband, satisfied that the conversation was over, went back to his paperwork. The Adam’s apple on Rossetti’s long neck bobbed as he swallowed. “I also remember promising that I would get even with you for all the trouble you caused, and today is your day of reckoning, my friend.”

  José slapped down the paper in his hand. “I did not always cause the trouble.”

  “Well, you sure as hell didn’t hide from it!” Rossetti turned to me. “Besides the women, your husband anointed himself the emancipator of every slave in Brazil.”

  “Slavery is barbaric. No civilized society has any business participating in it,” José said, crossing his arms. “You couldn’t expect me to let injustice stand.”

  “I can when we are outnumbered by Brazilian soldiers,” Rossetti responded.

  “Yes, but what about the drowning slave? I haven’t heard that story.” I set Menotti down in his basket. If I didn’t intervene, this bickering would go on for hours.

  “I think I’ll tell the story, if you don’t mind?” Rossetti said, wiping the orange juice from his hands. “José and I were walking along the riverfront, on our way to an important meeting with a pasta wholesaler,” he began, reminding me of my husband’s merchant past. “Well, we heard screams and loud splashing. Your husband ran to see what all the commotion was. Now, let me remind you how important this meeting was. We had our best clothes on as we were running toward the danger.”

  “Hey, you don’t get to complain about the running. You followed me,” José interjected.

  “As if you ever gave me a choice.” Rossetti continued his story. “It turned out there was a slave fighting for his life in the river. Without thinking, your husband dove in and rescued the man.” Rossetti shook his head. “You ruined a perfectly good suit and wound up going to the most important meeting of our import business looking like a drowned cat.”

  “And if I had not intervened the man would have died.” José scooped up his papers. “You would think that with all the people standing around, laughing, someone would have done something.”

  “Yes, well that someone is usually Giuseppe Garibaldi.” Rossetti’s smile betrayed his scolding tone. “I also seem to remember the slave owner arriving shortly thereafter to beat and scold you and his property.”

  José harrumphed. “As if a human can be someone’s property.” He lifted his papers under one arm. “Come, Canabarro is expecting us.” José kissed
my temple. “I’ll be back in time for dinner.”

  “And please, be sure to see me if you want more stories about your husband.” Rossetti gave me an exaggerated bow. “I have plenty.”

  The men left, the sounds of their playful bickering filling the air as I started to prepare our dinner.

  Our life in Rio Capivari wasn’t much, but as José said, “We have four walls and a roof, that’s all we need,” and truly it was. Just having stability again brought me peace. I sat with Menotti one night in our little hut while he gnawed on a wet rag. His little arms and legs punched the air with glee. A rustling by the doorway caught my attention. José stood there watching us.

  “I didn’t want to disturb you. You both looked like you were having so much fun.” He smiled as he came over to tickle Menotti. He acted happy, but there was a shadow that had passed over him. His smile wasn’t genuine.

  “José, what’s going on?”

  “Nothing.” He lifted our son up, then brought him close to nuzzle his chubby cheek.

  “José, please.” I put a hand on his arm.

  He took a deep breath and slowly let the air escape from his lips, puffing out his cheeks. “The Imperial army has made an offer.”

  “Surely that should be good news.”

  “I suppose.” He shrugged. “According to General Gonçalves, the new Imperial general is willing to pardon all Brazilian citizens.”

  “Only citizens?” I sat back. “People such as myself and the landowners would be spared, but what about the others? The slaves?”

  “The Imperial general made the terms of the offer very clear. Brazil will never free the slaves.”

  My heart sank as I thought of Pedrina and her family. “But Rio Grande do Sul promised they would be free. What will happen to them?”

  José sighed and looked away. “They’ll be sent back to their owners, who will probably kill them for running away in the first place.”

  “What about you and Menotti?” I watched my husband gently rock our son in his arms.

  He shrugged. “We aren’t citizens. Menotti, I am sure, would be fine, but the Brazilian government is no friend of mine. The official edict is that those who want to go back, who want to go home, will be free to do so. Those who choose to stay will do so of their own free will.”

  “And what will happen to those who stay?”

  “The Imperial army will not be merciful.” José went back to playing with Menotti.

  “What are we going to do?”

  José looked up at me. “I don’t know.”

  A knot grew in my stomach. José always had an answer, a plan. If we stayed, we would be forced to fight a losing battle, but if we left we would have nowhere to go. And what of the freed slaves we had made promises to? José had insisted on their freedom as a condition of his involvement. I know my husband; he felt responsible for them. As irrational as it might be, he felt he had created the situation that caused them to be in limbo. If they were to die, the weight of their souls would rest on his shoulders.

  José smiled up at me, and I stopped wondering what was going to happen tomorrow. So long as we were together we would figure out a plan together.

  * * *

  The Imperial army offer had its intended effect on our forces. Almost all of those who could leave did. The small number who stayed were those who were too stubborn to give up or who truly had nowhere else to go.

  Rio Capivari rested on the edge of a small lagoon. On the other side General Gonçalves owned some property where he was able to smuggle goods through to sustain us—goods he paid for out of his own pocket, as he did for most things in this war. However, Gonçalves wasn’t among the plebes, struggling every day. He rode for Brasília, to kiss the ring of the new king and find an end to this war.

  Standing in the cold night air, I watched my husband climb into a skiff that silently slipped into the ink-black water of the lagoon. The soldiers were so quiet that all I could hear was the lapping of the water against the boat and the shore. I wrapped my thin shawl tightly over my shoulders as my heart broke for my husband.

  He had once been a man of such pride. Now he looked like a flower that had begun to wilt. I thought of the Rio Grande and all the ships that he had commanded once upon a time in Laguna. We’d all had such pride then. We were certain that we were destined for glory. We would be revolutionaries for this new republic. Now most of our friends were gone and José rode a canoe that could barely float.

  Twenty-Four

  November 1840

  The Imperial army tracked us from São Simão. It was only a matter of time before they would make their way here. With that threat looming just over the horizon, the decision was made to go in waves to the safety of São Gabriel.

  To get there we had to travel through the highest section of the southern Brazilian highlands. There we would find refuge with those who were sympathetic to our cause. José and I were to leave in the first wave, the vast majority of the soldiers and their families marching alongside us. Rossetti was to take the second wave with his printing press, and a third wave of soldiers would travel with General Canabarro.

  Rippling gray clouds filled the skies as we loaded the wagons. I moved Menotti from one hip to the other as I watched José and Rossetti loading the printing press onto a wagon.

  “I don’t understand why you must take this ridiculous contraption,” José complained as Rossetti helped him load goods into the cart.

  “Because if I don’t, no one else will.”

  José threw his arms into the air in exasperation. “We don’t need the printing press.”

  “We need to be able to stay in contact with our brothers in Italy. They need to know our plight.” He leaned against the wagon briefly, wiping sweat from his brow.

  “For once will you think about yourself? Telling our story doesn’t have to be your job.” José was now following him as they picked up more goods to put in the cart. “Brother, let someone else carry that burden. Just for a little while.”

  Rossetti paused. He looked up at me and Menotti, making eye contact for the briefest of moments. I thought José had gotten through to him, but Rossetti shook his head. “I cannot shift my responsibilities onto someone else.”

  “I’ll buy you a new printing press,” José pleaded.

  “With what gold, my friend? No, that printing press and I have been through too much together for me to ever let her go.”

  José sighed. “You are a stubborn, foolish man. That press will be the death of you.”

  Rossetti hoisted a box onto the cart before leaning against it, panting for air. “Then I will die with a legacy.”

  I pitied the women who were not suited to this life. Shortly after we set out for the trail they began to complain with every step. Their children were heavy weights in their arms. Their feet hurt. The weather was too cold.

  I was lucky, Menotti was only a few months old and not very heavy. The first two miles felt lovely, the wind crisp against my flushed cheeks, but the trail grew steep as we traveled up the ridge.

  The lush green foliage became sparse as more rocks lined the sides of the trail in piles bubbling up along our route. Soon there were only rocks as far as our eyes could see. The rain, relentless in its punishment, pelted us like tiny pebbles, turning the ground into a slippery mess. We had to get off our horses and walk alongside them, pulling them by their reins.

  When I was young, the gauchos would sit around the campfire telling stories of giants who lived at the tops of the vast mountains of southern Brazil. One tale in particular always caught my attention: A prince volunteered to climb to the highest mountain in search of a fountain made of gold that would save his father from death. The prince was warned, “Do not look to the right or the left, for if you do the giants will snatch you up and make you their slave forever.” When the prince began walking on the path, he couldn’t help himself. He looked to his left and a giant snatched him up and made him his slave.

  Now as I stared up the steep path
before me, I couldn’t help but think that these mountains were the giants that the gauchos warned me about. As we journeyed the air thinned, making every breath a struggle. It didn’t matter how deeply I inhaled, it felt like I couldn’t take enough air into my lungs. The rain never stopped. I was frigid and I didn’t think I would ever be dry again.

  I struggled to keep our son warm in the sling. At one point during our ascent José stopped me. He stripped off his poncho and took Menotti from me. “Here, let me carry him for a while.” He strapped the child to him and then covered himself and our baby with the poncho. Periodically, as we continued to climb, he lifted the collar so that he could breathe warmth over our son.

  At night José and I placed the baby in between us to shield him from the wind that flowed through our feeble tent. Sleep didn’t come easily. I still shivered uncontrollably as fat water drops plunked randomly onto my forehead. Our attempts to keep Menotti warm didn’t work very well, and he shivered and cried almost all night. I both dreaded and looked forward to morning.

  At the break of dawn, we picked up our little camp and started our descent at an increased speed. The rains paused, and we wanted to move as fast as possible while the weather was good. The descent was muddy, causing many to slip and fall. Carrying my son the way José had, I felt better about keeping Menotti warm and safe as I used the trees to guide me.

  Halfway down the mountain, the rains began again. I was relieved only briefly by a flat plateau until José made us stop. The whispers began, and I wove through our company to the front. There were remnants of an Imperial army ambush. An abandoned camp, fires long since drowned by the torrential rain. The officers talked among themselves as they raided the supplies that had been left behind. We were going to need to be more diligent. I looked at the carcass of the camp. Even the Brazilian army couldn’t withstand the harsh mountain weather. I at least had more strength than they did.

  We trudged along but stopped again as a river came into view. It swelled with the rains. The current was so strong that little waves rippled dangerously. As I cast my eyes over the water, I began to lose hope. José sent scouts north and south to find a bridge or even some shallows so that we could cross the swiftly moving current. I eyed the water suspiciously. I had encountered similar rivers when I rode with the gauchos. Knowing the danger to ourselves and our cattle, we would always find a different way to get to the other side, even if it meant an extra day in the wilderness. A river like this meant the loss of cattle and life.