Brazil

by Errol Lincoln Uys

  “When have we ever enslaved your Christians, Padre? We come in peace to your town. Where are the chains, Padre, the bonds and fetters? We intend no harm to your children.”

  Padre Mola uncrossed his arms. “And what do you intend for the Guarani who live in the forest?”

  “As God sees me, Padre, He knows that I hold it a sacred duty to make war on those pagans. They are sent to the plantations in Brazil. They are tamed and improved by the experience.”

  “Is it not preferable that these simple creatures of the land gain this knowledge through love and understanding, not in bondage to others?”

  “God has ordered us to combat the pagan.”

  “You believe this?”

  “I do.”

  “Do you not consider this judgment too harsh, Raposo Tavares?”

  “No harsher than dispatching savages armed with muskets to combat a Christian force.”

  “Twenty old pieces is all we have. Twenty old muskets, Captain-Major. What defense is that against your bandeira? Padre Rafael warned me that when there were no more natives of Brazil left to enslave, the supply would be sought in this province. He saw what happened at the Bahia, where all were taken for the cane fields.”

  “Padre Rafael?”

  “My old assistant, God bless his memory. He died two months ago. Forty-five years Rafael Arroyo labored in this vineyard, first at the Bahia, then Rio de Janeiro, and finally here. He knew much happiness at San Antonio, in his last days, at the sight of so many Guarani obedient to our Lord.”

  “Padre Mola, don’t you see that we are subjects of the same king, bound to obey the same laws?”

  “Forgive me, Captain-Major, but this is not true. It is well known that there are men from São Paulo who defy the decrees of His Royal Majesty.”

  Raposo Tavares declared, with conviction: “No company leaves São Paulo de Piratininga without His Majesty’s license to capture wild Carijó, who are a threat to the peace.”

  “It was not what the law of 1609 intended.”

  “That law, Padre, is void.”

  “Would the king have decreed that every native of Brazil was free had it not been just and proper?”

  “The decree was a mistake. It would have ruined the Christians of Brazil, who need slaves to work their lands. Had their protests against those laws been ignored, all Brazil would have been returned to the wilderness. Even in the two years it took to have those laws revoked, our people lived in fear of seeing the labor of generations lost.”

  Padre Mola pondered a response to this but changed the subject abruptly. “What do you seek at San Antonio, Captain-Major?” he asked, folding his arms again.

  Raposo Tavares looked at his men, and beyond them to the group of reduction officials, who’d been silently observing the conversation. “Padre Mola, I’ve heard no denial of the outrage against my company. Do you think it right that so many who follow a Christian command should be killed?”

  Padre Mola sighed. “They were raiding our gardens.”

  “Ah, yes, Padre — stealing a few manioc roots.”

  “What do you want of us, Captain-Major?”

  “Today, Padre Mola, some food for my party. Tomorrow?” He shrugged. “I’ve no license to make war on Christians, even if they murdered my men.”

  This was of no consolation to Padre Mola, who knew that the men of the bandeiras had little concern for the legality of their actions. “You are welcome at my table, Captain-Major,” he said bleakly.

  At dinner that evening, Raposo Tavares made an agreement with Padre Mola guaranteeing that no Carijós who carried a written pass from the padre attesting that they were residents of the reduction would be arrested by the patrols of the bandeira.

  Upon returning from San Antonio, Raposo Tavares ordered his men to keep away from the lands of that reduction and to honor the pact he’d made with Padre Mola.

  “We’re far beyond the Line of Tordesilhas, in Spanish territory,” he explained to his officers. “We’re subject to the same king, but many highly placed officials in Madrid and Lisbon call us brigands, a threat to Spain’s great colonies to the west. As long as we violate no laws, their arguments for additional militia at Asunción and Buenos Aires go unheard. But, if we destroy the reductions and thereafter the Spanish towns beyond without provocation, His Majesty Philip will surely send an army to scourge us.”

  “Isn’t the attack on Tenente da Silva’s company provocation enough?” an officer asked.

  “Twenty muskets against a company of Paulistas? They will be heroes at court. No, we must wait, Paulistas. Until none can deny our right to those so beloved of the Jesuits at San Antonio!”

  On January 19, 1629, Carijó spies attached to the bandeira brought a report that infuriated one of Raposo Tavares’s officers, Simão Alvares. On a previous bandeira, Alvares had captured a Carijó chief, Tatabrana, leading him and his people from their malocas to São Paulo. The spies reported that Tatabrana was presently at San Antonio, having escaped from Alvares’s lands at São Paulo with ten other slaves. Padre Mola had given them all refuge.

  “Demand they be handed over!” Raposo Tavares said, and immediately dispatched Alvares and a body of men to the reduction.

  Alvares reported back that Padre Mola refused to let them go. “They’re Christians now, Padre Mola says, and may not be held in captivity. Tatabrana will be the servant of none but the Lord.”

  The captain-major’s blue-green eyes flashed with excitement. “I hear you, Simão Alvares,” he said. “You tell me of a place where runaway slaves are sheltered, where laws that honor an owner’s right are defied. What further provocation do we need? Officers, friends: Prepare yourselves!”

  A week later, as the bandeira made ready to leave, Tenente Bernardo da Silva lay on the oxhide in the corner of the dark hut. At first, the wound seemed to heal. But recently, he’d gone on a raid and that effort had exhausted him; the wound was festering.

  Today he rested, miserable and complaining, in the presence of his son and Raposo Tavares, who had already sent off the advance guard of the force — Bernardo’s command, now led by the father of Valentim Ramalho. Also at da Silva’s side was Padre Anselmo, priest of the Paulistas, having journeyed from the Paulista camps located near the reductions of San Miguel, Jesús Maria, and Concepción. The commanders of the Paulista companies in those areas had learned about Raposo Tavares’s impending attack on San Antonio and decided to initiate similar advances: If runaway slaves could find haven at San Antonio, then most certainly they were seeking sanctuary in the other towns as well.

  With Amador’s help, Bernardo da Silva had moved to an upright position, his back resting against a worn leather chest that held all his possessions. The light from the doorway illuminated his drawn and haggard face, the fleshy lips dry and cracked, his beard matted and unkempt.

  “How I’ve prayed, Padre Anselmo, for strength to make this march,” he said.

  “Rest, dear old friend,” Padre Anselmo said. “Our Lord is aware of your yearnings.”

  “But, Padre, there’s never been the equal of this campaign. More Carijó slaves than I’ve seen in all my voyages.”

  “And they’ll be brought to the stockade, Bernardo,” said Raposo Tavares.

  “Your weary eyes will behold them — in bondage.”

  “I thank you, my Captain-Major. A lovely promise. But I lie here a prisoner of this darkness while sons of my friends are rallied against that horde.”

  “Bernardo, your son, who has served us so loyally, will be there,” Raposo Tavares said.

  I, Amador Flôres, he said to himself, am invited to fight by the side of the bravest of men, Raposo Tavares, noble conqueror of the sertão!

  But Amador was brought rudely back to reality by the last few words of his father’s remarks to Raposo Tavares, which exploded in his head:

  “And he’ll stay with me.”

  Amador was too confused to speak.

  “It’s your father’s wish,” Raposo Tavares said.
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  “I don’t understand.” Amador looked at Bernardo da Silva.

  Padre Anselmo placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “You must obey him, Amador.”

  “Forgive me, Padre, but I wasn’t listening. I — ”

  Bernardo da Silva repeated his request. “It’s a great honor to be asked by the captain-major himself, Amador, but he has more than enough men to clear the reduction. You’ll stay with me.”

  Amador’s eyes filled with tears. “Father?” he said. “Father?”

  Padre Anselmo tightened his hold on Amador’s shoulder. “Your father needs you at his side, my son.”

  Amador fought back his tears and looked imploringly at his father.

  “I’m proud of your leaving the cows and the women at our house,” Bernardo said. “Here, among my friends, you’ve shown yourself a true son of Tenente da Silva. There will be other times — many times when you carry on the conquest.”

  Despite his overwhelming disappointment, Amador was moved by something urgent and appealing in his father’s voice. “Oh, Captain-Major, Your Honor,” he said weakly, “I thank you, but I must stay with my father.”

  “Amador Flôres . . . may God grant me a son as obedient as you.” Raposo Tavares looked down at the ailing tenente. “Take heart, Bernardo — this young man will yet honor the name of da Silva.”

  Raposo Tavares bade them farewell then, and Padre Anselmo left, too, to visit another company to the south, near the reduction of Concepción. Amador asked his father’s permission to watch the departure of the main body of soldiers.

  Walking among the groups of mamelucos and native warriors, Amador again felt terrible pangs of disappointment. He was stirred by this body of armed men, ready with their muskets and machetes, quivers tight with arrows; men who stood burdened by weights of iron chain and shackles and great lengths of cord for the multitude of slaves promised from this venture.

  Amador was standing near the entrance to the stockade, watching the last of the departing company, when he heard a familiar voice:

  “All the fine young men tend the cattle and the Carijó, while others march off to glory.”

  Amador turned, to find Valentim Ramalho standing with his hands on his hips, staring up at him. “A simple conquest — twenty muskets against the hundred our men carry,” he said.

  “That may be so, but it will be a conquest we won’t see,” Valentim replied.

  Amador began to walk away, and Valentim hurried along next to him, continuing to bemoan this exclusion from the fighting force, when a black slave of Bernardo da Silva’s hurried toward them. “Amador Flôres, your father calls for you,” she said.

  He returned to the small, dark hut, not knowing what to expect, and discovered Bernardo da Silva on his feet, leaning against one of the thick poles that supported the roof beams. His strained expression revealed the intense effort it had taken for him to rise. His left hand clutched the bandaged wound in his right shoulder.

  “Don’t stand there, my son. Help me with my garments.”

  “But, Father, you’re to rest.”

  “Rest? Upon my back, when all I hear is the roll of drums? No, Amador Flôres. We go to San Antonio, where four thousand Carijó wait to be carried away!”

  “Oh, Tenente!” he cried. “I’m to march in this campaign?”

  “Yes, yes, Amador Flôres — if you hurry and help me prepare.”

  Amador needed no further urging. He went to the chest, took out the quilted war jacket, and helped his father into it. The old man groaned with pain as they pulled the garment over his right shoulder. “Meu Deus!” he exclaimed, much to Amador’s distress. “Belt, pouch, powder flask, my knives — the rest, Amador Flôres.” Amador fetched the broad leather belt and saw Bernardo’s hands trembling as he reached for it. “Meu Deus!” his father repeated. “Help me!” Amador passed the belt around his father’s waist and fastened its large brass clasps, “Pouch,” Bernardo demanded, and when Amador brought it, the old man fingered its contents: replacement items for his matchlock musket — a few screws, a spare flash-guard support; small tin containers for powder charges; cotton wadding; seven silver reis; a small box of alum for sickness; a black-beaded rosary.

  Bernardo felt the outside of the pouch. “My spoon?” Amador found it next to the leather chest, and as he handed it to his father, it slipped from Bernardo’s fingers. “Let me do it, Father,” he said, and taking the pouch, he secured the silver spoon in the loops at its side, as he’d seen his father do so many times. He attached the pouch to the broad belt. “Good. Good,” Bernardo said.

  When Amador had helped his father on with his stockings and tall boots, Bernardo attached his weapons, one by one, to his belt. Last was his broad-brimmed hat, which Amador found behind a deerskin hanging from a rafter and passed to his father. “Now fetch your own equipment,” Bernardo said. “I’ll wait beyond the hut.”

  Amador dashed out of the hut to the shelter where he hung his hammock, quickly collected the items he needed — his machete, knife, bow and arrows — and a leather jerkin given him by one of the mamelucos who served his father. As he was leaving the shelter, he ran into Valentim and Abeguar.

  “Where are you going?” Valentim asked.

  “My father’s improved,” he said. “I’m going with him to join the campaign.

  “If you go, Amador Flôres, we’ll do the same.”

  “My father asked me, alone.”

  “The tenente wouldn’t object,” Valentim said, not bothering to explain why. He turned to Abeguar. “You’ll come?”

  The young Tupiniquin nodded. “There are plenty of others to guard these miserable Carijó.”

  “No,” Amador said. “You can’t disobey your orders.”

  “Tenente da Silva can change the orders,” Valentim said.

  Amador saw his father coming out of the doorway of his hut. “I must go,” he said. “We’ll get our weapons. Wait for us!”

  Amador hurried to his father, and just as they were about to set off, Valentim and Abeguar came running toward them

  “What is this?” Bernardo da Silva asked.

  Amador said. “They want to come with us.”

  “They have their posts.”

  The pair had reached their side, and Valentim immediately cried, “Oh, Tenente da Silva, please, we wish to march with Amador.”

  To their complete surprise, the old man did not object. “Come, then, my young men, but don’t cry to me if your fathers take a whip to you!” To Abeguar, who stood quietly, he said, “Let us see, Tupiniquin, if you’re as brave as your father.” Then, to Amador: “You, da Silva, since you’ve already visited this Jesuit camp, will lead the way.”

  They trooped out of the stockade soon afterward, delaying awhile to add to the supplies. Amador marched ahead, his friends behind, and old Bernardo took up the rear. They had gone about two hundred paces when Bernardo uttered a string of terrible oaths; the boys swung around and saw the tenente sprawled on the ground. Amador hurried to him.

  “Meu Deus,” his father groaned. “Oh, dear God!”

  “Your wound, Father — you fell on it?”

  Bernardo started to rise, extending a hand to Amador, who grasped it and helped him to his feet. Valentim had picked up the tenente’s musket.

  “Mother of mercy,” the old man growled, “such darkness.”

  “What’s wrong, Father?” Amador asked, still clutching his arm.

  “I didn’t want to be a burden to the captain-major,” Bernardo said, “but only to go along to share the fight. And, dear God, to be denied this final glory, this last sweet conquest . . . ” He stopped suddenly. “Amador?”

  “Yes, Father?”

  “We must go on.”

  “It’s a long way,” Amador said, uncertainly.

  “You’ll help me. We must go on,” Bernardo repeated. Then, suddenly, he gave an anguished cry.

  “Oh, my son, your old father’s eyes . . . So little sight remains to me, Amador.”

  Amador t
ightened his hold on his father’s arm. “Your sight?”

  “These past weeks it’s worsened,” Bernardo said. “Everything’s become clouded, distorted.”

  “We’ll return to the stockade,” Amador said quietly.

  “No! You’ll help me, Amador Flôres. You’ll lead me to this final conquest. I’ll not be denied this march! I have sight enough to see the ruin of San Antonio, sight enough to look upon that multitude of slaves we’ll remove. We’ll keep behind the army until they enter the reduction. Raposo Tavares must not be troubled with an invalid. Then, my son, during the attack you’ll be my eyes.”

  Thus they continued onward, Abeguar in the lead, Amador walking with his father, who kept a hand on his shoulder, and Valentim taking up the rear, carrying the tenente’s musket.

  They marched this way, for the next two days. Then Abeguar, after scouting ahead, reported that he’d sighted the entire force camped in the forest, two hours away. Bernardo ordered Abeguar to continue observing the bandeira and to return as soon as it began the final stage of its advance toward San Antonio.

  The attack on San Antonio came two days later, on January 30, 1629, and the da Silvas, father and son, were there.

  When the bandeira broke camp, Abeguar had run through the forest to summon the others. They left immediately, an hour after dawn. Bernardo da Silva encouraged the young men forward with impatience and enthusiasm:

  “Onward! Onward! Amador!” he cried, at the merest slackening of the pace.

  Finally, they breasted a hill overlooking San Antonio, and the young men saw that the attack had already begun. Bernardo could not distinguish the figures of men still streaming toward the opening in the high palisade, but he did identify a cloud of gray smoke over a section of the reduction houses and heard the distant crack of musket shot. They rushed down the hill.

  They entered the reduction with the last groups of Paulistas. An officer cried out greetings to Tenente da Silva, but, in the haste to join the fight, no one paid serious attention to the sudden arrival of Bernardo and his three cohorts.

  Inside the reduction, panic and chaos prevailed.