Brazil

by Errol Lincoln Uys

“Reward? You abandon the quest, Cordeiro de Matos, and ask for a reward?” He began to limp furiously toward the Paulistas and natives a hundred feet away. “He asks a reward!” he shouted. “The captain — your master — says your company deserves its prizes and honors. This company” — he glanced contemptuously along their ranks — “of cowards!”

  When Amador’s sons and Procópio Almeida saw Amador charging toward the Paulistas, they, too, hurried in that direction. Trajano and Olímpio drew their machetes.

  Cordeiro de Matos also crossed the clearing. “Remind him, Almeida!” he shouted. “The pile of stones and pebbles at your hut. Worthless!”

  Procópio Almeida shook his head and was silent.

  Amador raised his left arm and pointed with the three fingers on his hand. “There, Cordeiro de Matos . . . in heaven is our Lord. He sees me abandoned by half my company.”

  Cordeiro de Matos motioned to his column and they began to move toward the opening in the stockade.

  “Go!” Amador yelled. “Tell your sons at São Paulo how brave you were, heroes of the high serra!” Again and again he stabbed his three fingers at the sky. “But the Lord won’t abandon me! He will yet lead us to a treasure of His creation!”

  Very quickly, Cordeiro de Matos and his column were gone. Late that afternoon Trajano wanted to talk with Amador about the route they would take, but he couldn’t find him. At a slave maloca, he was told that Amador had gone hunting with Abeguar. Sundown came, and night, which followed like a shot in these heights, closed around the stockade. After waiting for three hours, Trajano and Olímpio went to search for their father.

  With six slaves, they headed in the direction of a valley four miles west of the camp, where Amador had often tracked peccary. Along their route were four malocas of Tupi-speaking natives, with whom they were at peace. As they neared this village, they heard the sounds of rattles and chants rising into the night; Trajano told them to approach cautiously, but these Tupi were engrossed in their ritual and ignored the group as it crossed toward the men’s place.

  Trajano stopped abruptly, one hundred feet from the circle of Tupi.

  “Dear God!” Olímpio seized Trajano’s arm.

  Within this heathen circle, stripped to his ragged breeches and painted with red dye, Amador Flôres hopped with awkward, jerking steps and raised his voice to the chants of the savages.

  “Father!” Olímpio cried out, and made as if to rush forward, but Trajano held him back. His long face was filled with an expression of utmost horror; his big frame shook. “Father! Come away from this place! For the love of Jesus and your soul, senhor, hurry away.”

  Amador smiled dementedly. “Quiet, Olímpio Ramalho,” he said, his voice low and filled with menace. “Be silent lest you rouse the demons that haunt this assembly.”

  A terror rose within Olímpio at his father’s possession by this wickedness, and he began to back off into the shadows beyond the fire. Trajano, too, moved away.

  Abeguar and slaves who had accompanied Amador sat on the ground. The chants of the dancers quieted and their pace slowed; and then the pagé indicated that Amador and the Tupi should be seated.

  Amador had left the stockade with Abeguar and the slaves with the intention of seeking wild pigs, but they had been offered food and drink at these malocas, and while at a longhouse they were joined by the pagé, Creep Foot. In his desperation after the desertion of Cordeiro de Matos, Amador had appealed to Creep Foot:

  “What evil keeps me from my treasure? What do your gods see that’s hidden from me? O, pagé, tell this old warrior whom you greet as a brother the secrets of bright green stones!”

  Creep Foot now addressed Amador, fingering the plug below his lip. “You have told us that these stones we find near our village are weak charms,” he said. “Our ancestors knew this. They told of green stones with which a warrior is protected against his greatest enemy and man seed a woman carries is not weakened.”

  “These are emeralds!” Amador exclaimed. “Green fire of earth, Pagé! My emeralds!”

  Amador scrambled to his feet. “You!” he said to Creep Foot. He limped along the semicircle of villagers. “All who know the story of the fathers. Tell me everything said about the magic stones.” Olímpio remained in the shadows beyond the fire, but Trajano had moved forward. “Heed every word, Trajano,” Amador commanded.

  The pagé pointed toward the villagers. “Not one of these men has seen such a stone.”

  “But you, Pagé, what do your gods see?” Amador asked.

  “It is said that the stones are at a lake in these mountains.”

  “Where, Pagé? Where?”

  “I do not know.”

  “More, Pagé. What more did the Tupi saints reveal?”

  “The magic stones live in this lake. They move below the waters, from one shore to another. They are as difficult to catch as the snake fish.”

  There was a burst of laughter from Trajano. “Stones that swim!” he cried.

  “Silence!” Amador shouted hoarsely at his son. “A lake with magical green stones. Emeralds, Trajano. Emeralds!”

  Trajano looked at him pityingly.

  Olímpio accompanied his father on the first foray Amador made into the mountains, but he quickly reverted to his role as camp master, preferring to laze at the stockade rather than exert himself.

  Trajano continued to march with Amador, but alone one night with Olímpio and seven Paulistas — five more deserted before a second prospecting trip in December 1678 — Trajano derided his father:

  “‘Onward! Onward!’ he commands. ‘There’s a valley! A ravine! A lake!’ A lake, my good companions, filled with emeralds! I tell my father: ‘Six years we’ve searched and haven’t found this lake.’ He points to the hills. ‘My horse!’ he cries. ‘Armor! Banner with the Cross of Christ! For the love of St. George! For young Dom Sebastião! Hasten! All Portugal waits!’”

  Olímpio reminded him that as sons they owed Amador their loyalty. “We do?” Trajano queried. “When brave men of this bandeira flee from the sight of the bold beggar, our father, dragging himself across these hills?”

  Procópio Almeida also remained sympathetic toward Amador, and was not depressed by the huge pile of worthless rock samples outside his hut. “I feel it in my bones, Olímpio,” he would say, and laughing, he would slap his wooden leg — carved by himself and adorned with two wide bands of silver filigree. “There are riches here! Your father climbs the highest peaks, but the treasure is down here. Not emeralds. Not silver. Gold! ”

  When the emerald hunters were away, Procópio Almeida prospected for gold in the streams near the camp. Olímpio often went with him, and Procópio taught him how to use a wooden bateia, for panning sand and gravel from a riverbed.

  On a day in June 1679, when Amador was on his third prospecting trek since the flight of Cordeiro de Matos, Olímpio was dozing in the shade of a jacaranda tree in the stockade when slaves came running with cries that Procópio Almeida was calling for him. Olímpio feared another terrible misfortune to have befallen the luckless Procópio and hurried to his aid.

  But Procópio was perfectly safe, and standing in the middle of a stream with his wooden leg rammed into the mud. He was stripped to his waist, the big muscles on his arms and shoulders flexing as he washed the pebbles and soil. When he saw Olímpio approach, he sang out: “Gold! Gold! Gold!”

  During the next four weeks, Procópio and Olímpio went on to recover fifty-two oitavos — eighths of an ounce — from this stream before the traces of gold dwindled. Procópio, convinced that more would be found, continued to prospect for the metal.

  When Amador came back from his latest search at the end of August, they excitedly presented him with their find. But he laughed at the small pile of gold dust. “Emeralds!” he reminded them. “Emeralds!”

  September 11, 1679, was a violent stormy night with a downpour that turned the ground within the stockade into a quagmire. Two weeks ago the prospecting column had made its way back to the camp af
ter the third unsuccessful search this past year. Tonight the seven Paulistas with the bandeira met in a shelter that housed the camp’s manioc mill. Trajano da Silva had summoned them here.

  “Are you with me?” Trajano asked them.

  “Yes!” they replied, almost with one voice. “Yes!”

  “God sees me as the captain-major’s son. The Lord knows that I’ve supported him for six years. I remind him of the ruin he’s brought to these da Silvas. ‘No! No! No!’ he protests. ‘I won’t be poor and defeated. I’ll have my emeralds!’”

  “We’re the last group with him,” a Paulista said. “When we return to São Paulo, he’ll go with us.”

  “Never,” Trajano said. “He’ll never forswear his vow.”

  “With Olímpio Ramalho? And Almeida hopping between these hills?”

  “Don’t laugh, senhor! Not tonight.”

  There was sudden solemnity. “What must be done?”

  Trajano began to speak, but there was a mighty roll of thunder and flashes of lightning. “May God forgive me,” he said when it had passed. “There’s but one way. Words won’t convince him; nor will reason.” His voice trembled. “I . . . will . . . kill him.” There was silence, and then one of the Paulistas offered to do the deed himself. Trajano shook his head. “It’s an act of mercy. Let it be my hand.”

  An hour later Trajano headed for the hut he shared with Amador and Olímpio. Great drops of rain splattered the mud as he walked to the entrance of the wattle-and-daub structure. Ten feet away, he drew a long knife and then hastened to the opening.

  “Take him!” Amador commanded. “Now!”

  Trajano froze with shock as four Carijó disarmed him. Olímpio stood there, too, with a pistol.

  “Trajano da Silva!” Amador growled his name. “Did you truly believe that the Lord would forsake me? That He wouldn’t send old Abeguar to hear every word at the mill and report to me: ‘Your son, my Master, plots to kill you!’” Amador gave a short, hysterical laugh. “Savage! My Tupiniquin bastard!” He turned his back on his son. “Take him, Carijó. Throw him into the stocks. Let him pass this night with God’s anger ringing in his ears.”

  The seven Paulistas who had conspired with Trajano fled the camp, choosing the raging storm and terrors of flight through the mountains. Trajano da Silva lay alone this long night with the rain lashing down on him, his legs thrust through the stocks, his ankles fettered with shackles and chains.

  Amador got up before daybreak and changed his clothes, selecting the best items left in his leather chest. Everything he put on was frayed and ruined, his war jacket gashed, with the cotton twill hanging out, his last pair of boots cracked and encrusted with dirt. Still, when he went to sit on the bench outside the hut, all who watched and waited were able to discern pride and dignity.

  Then he stood up and began to walk to the Carijó and Tupi. As he crossed to the malocas, Amador had to pass the stocks. Trajano raised his shoulders and twisted in his father’s direction, but Amador continued walking and Trajano did not call out.

  Olímpio and Procópio Almeida watched from the goldsmith’s hut and saw

  Amador speak with Abeguar. Immediately afterward, Abeguar returned to the slaves and began issuing orders. Amador made his way to Olímpio and Procópio.

  “You witnessed everything last night,” Amador said. “Yes, senhor, sadly I did,” Olímpio replied.

  “This bastard of mine whom I accepted so freely came to kill me. I would lie dead at this hour were it not for Abeguar. I must accept that I’m an old man who has had a long life. I see this. But, God knows, Olímpio Ramalho, I’ve searched my soul and find no cause for such an end.”

  “By God’s grace, you were spared it.”

  “Yes, I was spared.” Amador turned around and faced the stocks, where Abeguar and a group of slaves were releasing Trajano.

  Olímpio watched them, too. “Your mercy?”

  The slaves unshackled Trajano and dragged him to his feet. Amador turned slowly to Olímpio and Procópio Almeida.

  “Quarter? They all cry for quarter,” he said. “I have no pity.”

  “Senhor, you’re not above God and the law.”

  Amador reached out and placed a hand on Olímpio’s shoulder, a rare demonstration of affection toward this son. “You’re right: I’m not above God. But in the sertão . . . here I am the law.”

  They followed him until he stopped fifteen feet from Trajano. The slaves had reattached Trajano’s leg irons and he stood with difficulty, leaning against the stocks. He was covered with mud and dirt, his hands clenched at his sides, his legs trembling.

  Abeguar and five natives who acted as his officers stood ready to rebuke any who misbehaved, but the Carijó and Tupi were quiet and attentive.

  “His mother was a daughter of the Tupiniquin to whom I gave my seed. He was a boy when she died and he was taken into a home to be fed with love and kindness. He was led to the table of our Lord.” Several natives cried out with praises for Jesus Christ. “He was raised with every hope of salvation. And he was given my name, this warrior: ‘My son,’ I declared before all men. ‘Trajano da Silva.’”

  Trajano listened with bowed head, the only sound from him the rattle of the chain and shackles when he shifted his feet. Olímpio and Procópio Almeida exchanged glances of deep perturbation.

  “When the prince regent asked that I lead this bandeira, I rejoiced. My own father longed for the smallest token of thanks but there was no reward for him in the days of the Spaniard. Tenente Bernardo was near his end and blind and yet stormed into the enemy camp . . . a da Silva! You bear his name and you would stain it with your bloody treason!”

  Trajano had started to speak, but his words were incoherent.

  “A defense?” Amador had turned to address Olímpio. “An excuse for his murderous intent?”

  “Allow him to speak, senhor.”

  Trajano had gained control of his voice. “I was wrong,” he said weakly.

  “You damned yourself in the eyes of your father. And before Almighty God.”

  “Our Lord of mercy.” Trajano tried to approach Amador, but he tripped and fell. A slave near the stocks started toward him, but Amador ordered him back.

  “You dare appeal to our Lord of mercy?” Amador said.

  “From you — forgiveness!” Trajano lifted his arms. “Have mercy!”

  Amador looked across at Abeguar. “You have my orders.”

  The old Tupiniquin nodded and signaled to six slaves.

  Olímpio moved next to Amador. “Father?”

  “Stand back!”

  “Father . . . spare him. You must.”

  Amador pointed to a jacaranda tree. “Hang him!” he shouted to Abeguar and the slaves.

  “No!” Trajano cried. “Oh, God, no!”

  Amador went to take up a position thirty feet from the tree. Olímpio and Procópio Almeida — struck dumb by this horrendous spectacle — followed him.

  The Carijó and Tupi stood at the place of execution and were silent. But a few were unable to restrain themselves and called out with taunts and jeers for The Enemy of their master.

  Trajano wept. He sobbed and screamed for his father’s pity.

  The jacaranda was a thin-limbed but an agile Tupi climbed up and tied the rope to a strong branch. Others secured Trajano da Silva’s neck in a noose and hoisted him onto the back of a horse. Two whips cracked against the animal’s flanks. It bolted forward and the rope snapped taut.

  “Dear forgiving Jesus,” Olímpio moaned, and started to move away.

  “Stay!” Amador ordered. “It’s not ended.”

  “For the love of God, what more do you demand?”

  “This!” Amador shouted, his eyes blazing. “This!” He beckoned furiously for Olímpio and Procópio Almeida to follow him as he started toward the Carijó and Tupi.

  “Let this be heard by all. I came to this sertão for emeralds.” Silver, which Amador also sought, had never assumed the same importance. “The men who joined my
bandeira have deserted — all but my slaves, my Tupi.” He looked at the figure swinging below the jacaranda. “God has spared Amador Flôres da Silva to continue the search. This will be done!” He glared at Olímpio. “I will make my testament, Olímpio Ramalho. Let all hear! I was spared the assassin’s blade, but if I die in the sertão . . . I command you to persist with the journey. You will neither take nor send my remains for burial in a civilized place without first discovering emeralds. You will fulfill my vow, under penalty of my curse!”

  The lake was twenty days’ journey northeast of the camp at Sumiduoro. It was a mile long and half that distance at its widest section, and lay in a valley eight hundred feet above sea level. Slides of forest clung to a range of knoblike hills to the north, but at the lake the vegetation was sparse. Two streams entered the valley from the southeast, with a sluggish flow that contributed little to the still water. The air at the lake was hot and humid, breeding pestilential fevers.

  The northern rim of the lake was swamplike, with a shallow ooze and rotting vegetation, dark and foul.

  On a raw, windy morning in May 1681 at this rocky site, Amador cried out: “Mother of God! Mary! Jesus most blessed!” He danced across the stony ground, several times losing his footing and flinging his arms around wildly, but he maintained his balance and bounded along, his silver hair flying, his eyes darting from one place to another.

  At this lake, Amador had found his emeralds.

  Olímpio stood next to Procópio Almeida, who sat with his wooden leg stretched out in front of him, and they watched as Amador scrambled toward them.

  “Again! Again, Procópio Almeida! Again!” Amador yelled out. “Tell me it’s not a mirage! Tell me it is a lake!”

  Procópio threw back his shoulders and looked up, his slightly slanted green eyes narrowed in concentration. “Esmeraldas.” He waved his hand above samples of rock that lay in front of him. “Esmeraldas.” He picked up a piece of rock with a vein of deep green gems. “Esmeraldas! ”

  His great beard jutted forward, and he cocked his head at a defiant angle. “Fidalgo! Governador! Hero of Portugal!”