“Our mission is with Governor Tomé de Sousa at São Salvador,” he’d replied. “From the Bahia, we will go to seek the pagans of Santa Cruz.”
“Look just beyond the windows of this tower,” she said, referring to part of the redoubt built by Dom Duarte at the time of the siege of Olinda, “and you’ll find sinners enough.” She glanced at her husband, who nodded his approval. “And you’ll see the monastery we started for the brothers of St. Francis, who have not come. It will be for you, Padre Inácio, and those of your order who come to Nova Lusitania.”
Inácio sensed a strength in Dona Brites, a large and imposing woman. But her husband seemed less formidable. Much was said in Lisbon about Dom Duarte, who had accomplished more than any other man who’d been donated a captaincy in Santa Cruz, but here, with gray hair and age-worn face and a tremor upon his limbs, it was obvious that the efforts to launch his colony had exhausted him.
“Why, Padre, do they want my lands?” Dom Duarte asked abruptly.
“Forgive me, senhor, I do not understand.”
“King João promised me that sixty leagues of Brazil would be mine and my heirs to rule forever. What we’ve gained has been conquered from the forest and the savages, inch by inch. This year, for the first time, we’ve begun to show a profit. Now the king sends Dom Tomé de Sousa to take what was deeded to me.”
“I cannot comment on such matters, senhor.”
“I can!” the donatário declared. “He — Dom Tomé de Sousa, that knighted bastard — sent you to spy out these lands of mine!”
“Oh, no, Dom Duarte, it was Padre Nóbrega who sent me.”
Dom Duarte looked at the Jesuit disbelievingly. “Tell Dom Tomé de Sousa and his agents that I’ll not have them here,” he said. “This is Nova Lusitania, captaincy of Dom Duarte and his planters, and we’ll have no intruders and reformers. Sinners there may be, but Our Savior and Light has sustained us all these years and will continue to do so —without the intervention of Dom Tomé de Sousa.”
Padre Inácio came to see, in the weeks that followed, that Dom Duarte was a good and deeply religious man albeit old and infirm and unable to govern effectively. Inácio would surely tell Padre Nóbrega and Governor Tomé that if Pernambuco’s pagans were to be reached, the men setting them such evil and unholy examples must be dealt with first, and that this captaincy must be placed under Governor Tomé’s jurisdiction.
He dared not mention these feelings to Dom Duarte, but he did urge that the donatary act immediately against those most openly in sin. “Order the men with wives in Portugal to send for them, senhor — or to return to their sides. And make these priests go out into the streets and drive those who live in concubinage to the
“I always urged the bachelors, Padre, to marry these girls. I warned them of the damnations they would face, for all the good it did. Try to understand, Padre: They don’t see savages; they see the Moorish princesses of their most lustful dreams. They can’t live without them.”
“But, Dom Duarte, how they will die,” Inácio said.
“Ask your uncle how it is. You’ve visited him, no?”
“Yes, before my journey through your territories.”
“And you’ve seen how he lives?”
Inácio looked at him bleakly. “Yes.”
“Nicolau has been one of the pillars of our community. I thank God for such men. Without them we’d be the same as those ruined and desolate captaincies below us.”
Inácio was not certain how to react to this praise for his uncle. “I will tell him you said this, Dom Duarte,” he said simply. “I return to Engenho Santo Tomás within the week.”
When he’d left them, Dona Brites said to her husband, “Perhaps it would have been better for the padre if you’d spoken openly about his ‘righteous’ uncle.”
“Rain! Rain! Rain!” grouched Inácio’s traveling companion on the journey back to Engenho Santo Tomás, vexed at the downpour — now a fierce torrent, now a soft, drenching mist that soaked through the dense cover — which had plagued them almost ceaselessly since they’d left Olinda two days ago. Accompanying them were the half-breed guides Inácio had employed previously, and also the two Tobajara.
“Oh, lovely rain!” Inácio said, ignoring his companion’s exasperation. He raised his face so that the huge drops of water splashed upon it. “Glorious rain! A blessing upon His paradise!”
He was Jacob de Noronha, commonly known as Parrot Man or, simply, Papagaio. With his large head, short neck, strongly hooked nose, and squat torso, he did bear more than a passing resemblance to a parrot. But he owed his nickname to the large parrot family that shared his lodgings at Olinda.
He had a fine house of four rooms, every one open to his raucous flock. He’d gone to great trouble to get his macaws, devoting to his search the energy and enthusiasm other men gave to hunting down slaves. He’d negotiated first with friendly natives at Olinda, who passed on his request to a tribe in the interior.
Not a few colonists thought Papagaio slightly crazy; still, they respected him. Some accepted his eccentricity with the privately voiced acknowledgment that Jacob was a Jew and therefore understandably given to such exotic pleasures. Whatever the case, they remained beholden to him, for Jacob was also a millwright and a moneylender.
Of five engenhos operating in the colony at that time, three — the Cavalcantis’ included — had been raised under his direction. Other plantations owed their existence to his financial support, but he was more a sugar merchant than a moneylender, advancing loans only against sugar crops that were certain to come downriver to Olinda.
Jacob had fled Lisbon and the Inquisition in 1536. He went first to the isle of São Thomé and then, a decade ago, had come to Brazil. He had found Dom Duarte tolerant of his background. Catholic though he was, the donatário was also practical: In Pernambuco, he said, it was trees, not men, that should be destroyed by fire. With nations of pagans surrounding them, what value was there in persecuting one little Jew, who had come to help build Nova Lusitania? He had welcomed Jacob, and other Hebrews, who would bring their skills to Olinda.
Most were nominally Cristãos Novos — “New Christians” — who survived the burnings and floggings in Portugal by accepting baptism; but, in Pernambuco, they were able to reaffirm (though not too openly) their ancient obediences. A few had acquired plantations, but most, like Papagaio, preferred Olinda.
Papagaio, rarely visited Nicolau Cavalcanti, but he was eager now to see, firsthand, the prospects for that mill’s next harvest. Cavalcanti had been borrowing heavily from Jacob to develop his plantation: more slaves, more and more clearings, plans for a bigger mill. Only 150 acres, a tiny fraction of the 75,000 acres owned by Cavalcanti, had been planted with cane; 100 acres more were to be cleared this season.
Cavalcanti’s nephew had pleasantly surprised Papagaio. When the tall, slender man with the sober face came to his house, Papagaio wondered if he was there to question his “faith.” But, as it turned out, Inácio had heard that Papagaio was bound for Cavalcanti’s valley, and wanted only his companionship on the trip.
With the incessant rain slowing their progress, it took three days to reach the valley. Inácio had been away from Engenho Santo Tomás for three months. Now he sat again at the dinner table in the big room of the blockhouse. Outside, it was cool and wet, but here a sticky dampness clung to everything. Inácio had difficulty breathing the muggy air and felt acutely uncomfortable beneath his perspiration-soaked cassock.
Three Portuguese who worked for Nicolau and had been away at the time of Inácio’s first visit were also present. One from Madeira was a sugar master; the other two also had experience with cane. They sat at one end of the table, keeping to themselves, and as soon as they’d eaten, they took leave of Senhor Cavalcanti and his guests and returned to their labors.
Inácio noticed that Jacob, who sat next to him, ate sparingly, almost like a bird, and seemed unconcerned by Nicolau’s vulgar manners, the mongrels that groveled at their feet for some mo
rsel to be tossed to them, and the flies that swarmed above the table.
From the conversation between Nicolau and Papagaio, it seemed to Inácio that nothing on this earth concerned them but sugar. He listened to them talk of its cultivation, of the clayey, fat soils that were best suited to it, and of the seasonal cycle to be observed. After the rains, from June onward, the forests must be cleared and the cuttings planted. And between the cuttings, there had to be the weeding: five times a year for new fields, three for older — every foot of ground between the rows of cane to be freed of the wild growth that spread so furiously. And there were rats and worms and plant diseases to be combated without rest, save on the days of the saints, when the slaves were free. For their labor, the slaves received a daily gourd of manioc and sun-dried meat and a ration of sugar syrup, the same given to cows and horses.
Inácio listened quietly as the two men spoke of the milling process, and what methods would extract the most juice from the cane, and whether it was time for Nicolau to consider returning to the site where Pedro had been killed to construct a larger, water-driven crusher. The press turned by the oxen had been erected within the stockade as a precaution against the savages, but with the reputation its owner had earned as a fighter and enslaver of his enemies, Engenho Santo Tomás seemed safe from further incursions.
Sugar! To Nicolau and Papagaio, it was the sweetest harvest on earth. They grew excited even at the mention of heaps of baggase, the cane trash, for, as they explained, the more left behind when the three iron-plated rollers had done their work, the greater the flow of juice along the wooden troughs to the first cauldron, where a sugar master must know the exact temperature to prevent the juice from being ruined by overboiling Inácio learned that the juice had to be boiled again and treated with lime to bring to the surface a fine scum, to be ladled off the purified syrup, after which the juice was boiled a third time, amid sickly sweet vapors, and stirred until thick and treacly. From this came both the blocks of rough sugar and, when filtered in clay pots, quality white crystals.
Sugar! As they spoke of mighty harvests of cane, of high-wheeled carts lumbering in from the fields from dawn to dusk, Inácio could not banish from his mind the picture of the Caeté who’d been flogged to death. O Lord, he cried silently, how many more will be crucified to make these harvests!
Papagaio grew most attentive when they considered the present crop, figuring how many arrobas — measures of 32 pounds — the mill would produce the next season. Cavalcanti reckoned on getting 2,000 arrobas of sugar from his lands — some 30 tons to be sent downriver to Olinda. Papagaio saw that this would require about 60 of the 1,100-pound chests in which sugar was packed for shipping to Lisbon, the best part of a shipload. He smiled contentedly, for there’d be a handsome profit for him, too. Then he suggested how Cavalcanti might even increase this output:
“Build the new mill, Nicolau, not for Engenho Santo Tomás alone but for others. You’re one man, with one son; you’ll never cultivate every acre of your estate. There are others, without the means to own a plantation; allow them into your valley to plant cane. They’ll have to bring every stalk they grow to your mill. And you take two out of every three stalks as compensation for the favors you show them.”
“This valley is mine,” Nicolau said icily. “No other man will hold the smallest part of it.”
“Who said they should be landowners? They would be your tenants. Already other plantation owners near Olinda do this: Ten, twenty acres they provide to a good man and his family. As long as the tenant clears it and brings his canes to the mill, good. If not, he goes. He has no rights to the land — only to the profit of his labor. The men at your malocas — the old scoundrel Ribeiro and others — what do they do to earn your hospitality?”
“Nothing! And I thank God for that.”
In response to Nicolau’s vehement remark, Papagaio said quietly, “It needn’t be so.”
“Forget Ribeiro,” Nicolau said. “That useless dog has no value to me. But what you suggest may be worth considering. It’s a big valley. There’s land enough for many. If others come, and live by my law” — he seemed amused by this — “why shouldn’t they grow cane for me!”
Suddenly Nicolau gave his full attention to his nephew, who was still listening intently: “So now you’ve seen, you’ve traveled these lands and met the men upon them. Tell me, Inácio, what did you find?”
Inácio stirred uncomfortably. Nicolau picked at something between his teeth with the long nail of his little finger. “Well, nephew, I’m waiting to hear,” he said.
Inácio began hesitantly. “This wonderful land . . . this inviting garden that our Lord has placed upon this far shore . . . these cool, fresh groves that show the greatness of the Creator — the wonders of His work are everywhere. But, my dear uncle . . . this is also a sad land.” He stopped, expecting some response, but neither of the men spoke.
Nicolau stopped picking his teeth and rested his chin on his hand. Papagaio stared down at the table, looking somewhat embarrassed.
“It is a sad land,” Inácio went on, “because men are making it so. They defile Santa Cruz with their sin. How will we ever accomplish the greatest of all works in this land, the conversion of its pagans, if our own people turn away from the Lord?”
“Dom Duarte is a God-fearing man,” Nicolau said, “but even he will tell you that these heathen will not be pacified by preaching but by the sword. Go to them as you must, but carry a staff and a rod of iron, for only with these will you bring them to their knees!”
The next morning, Inácio was sitting alone on a bench outside the storeroom.
Nicolau and Papagaio had gone to inspect the cane fields and the newest clearings. They’d taken Tomás and his playmates with them. Seeing the boy again, Inácio had determined to speak once more with his uncle about his education. He would urge Nicolau to send Tomás to his own father’s house in Lisbon, and he knew that he would have Helena’s support for such a suggestion, since she’d spoken to him after Nicolau and Papagaio had left for the fields. “Padre Inácio,” she’d said, “must my child grow up no better than one of these savages? Please — make his father understand that he may lose Tomás, as surely as he lost Henriques, if he lets him go wild, without the graces of a good Christian.”
As he sat outside the storeroom, Inácio saw a young woman come to the entrance of the stockade. From this distance, he didn’t get a clear glimpse of her; she hesitated a few moments and then came directly to him.
She was part Portuguese, part native. She had a round, open face with mysterious, slightly elongated hazel eyes. Her nose was small and slightly flattened, her light copper skin smooth and without blemish. She was small but finely proportioned. Her hair was a rich chestnut brown, thick and flowing and reaching to the small of her back.
She wore a loose-fitting yellow garment, and from a thin cord around her neck there hung a pendant of tiny feathers. There was a childlike quality about her, a freshness, enhanced by her delicate features.
Inácio stood up as the girl neared him, and stepped forward to meet her. She hesitated, then nodded her head in greeting, though she kept her eyes downcast. Then she looked up at him and said, in Portuguese, “He asks for you.”
“Who, child?”
“At the malocas — Affonso Ribeiro.”
“The old man?”
She nodded, and glanced toward the big house, where Helena had come to stand in the doorway.
“I’ll come immediately,” he said.
“He asks all night. He has the sickness. Others, too.”
“What sickness?”
She shook her head, indicating that she didn’t know.
“You are his child?”
Her eyes widened. “No. I am Unauá, daughter of Jandaia. My mother is at the big house.”
He looked at the girl, and was suddenly reminded of the handsome woman in the white robe. There was a similarity between them, in the shape of the face and the nose and in their confident, independ
ent bearing.
Helena was making her way toward them, walking barefoot across the wet ground, and Inácio went to meet her, the girl following him. “She calls me to Affonso Ribeiro, who lies sick,” he said.
“An evil and sinful man, Padre Inácio,” she said. “Go to him. If anyone needs God’s forgiveness, it’s the degredado.”
“This child lives with him?” he asked.
“At his maloca, yes, but she’s innocent, Padre. She’s the daughter of a woman of my house.”
“The one in the white robe?”
“Yes. Jandaia.”
“She does not live with her mother?”
Helena shook her head. “There’s a brother, too — children from a Tupiniquin warrior now dead. They’re cared for by one of Ribeiro’s wives, also a Tupiniquin. Go to him and you’ll see her — a pure savage, Padre.”
“But why doesn’t the mother raise them?”
“She has other children,” Helena said, and then lowered her eyes, her gaze falling somewhere near the cross on his rosary. “Go to the maloca,” she said flatly. Then she turned and walked off; without looking back, she swept over the threshold into the darkness of the big house.
Even before reaching the clearing of the malocas with Unauá, Inácio got an impression of neglect and impoverishment. The surrounding fields were badly in need of tending; scarcely any effort had been made to check the undergrowth. Native women were probing the earth with their digging sticks for manioc tubers, but, judging from the small pile they’d recovered, they were finding few plants under the dense mat of weeds.
As for the malocas themselves, the five once lofty palm-front structures were shot through with rotting thatch. The stockade of the engenho was strewn with filth, but the clearing was worse: Small, naked children squealed as they dragged themselves about in the quagmire in front of their parents and elders, who seemed totally oblivious to the dirt and stench around them.
As they approached Ribeiro’s maloca, a woman and a young man came out to greet them.
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