Brazil

by Errol Lincoln Uys

  “With such a crook at the helm, what hope of an honest and free Minas Gerais?” Martinho snorted.

  “Men like Judge Gonzaga and Dr. Cláudio Manuel will direct the new government,” André pointed out.

  Fernandes added, “Yes, Martinho . . . men like your father.”

  “No one expects independence to immediately extinguish all past wrongs,” Luis Fialho said. “The fight against evils like corruption and ignorance will be as great a struggle as any on the battlefield.”

  “Oh, Senhor Pai, Thomas Jefferson said this, too — that the struggle to build their nation is as demanding as was the war of independence,” Fernandes said. “Shortly before we met the minister, a bloody insurrection had been suppressed at Massachusetts. Senhor Jefferson was distressed but by no means disheartened: ‘Was it not to be expected that the tree of liberty would be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants?’ he asked.”

  “And martyrs?” Martinho Soares added, his eyes downcast.

  On Sunday, February 8, 1789, after Mass at the Church of St. Francis, André headed back to the rua das Flôres with a feeling of blessed joy. He kept pace with his father, who had difficulty crossing the smooth cobbles. Alferes Silva Xavier walked next to André and Raimundo da Silva, and was handsomely attired in the dress uniform of the dragoons. These three were leading a group of family and friends to the house on the rua das Flôres to celebrate the baptism of André’s son, José Inocêncio, to whom Silva Xavier was godfather.

  Constança Oliveira was a few feet behind André, with her mother and sisters, carrying José Inocêncio in a white lace shawl. Accompanying the women was the infant’s madrinha — the godmother — Ana Figueirido, the married daughter of a fazendeiro whose family had been befriended by André’s father when they arrived from Portugal thirty years ago.

  Constança Oliveira, twenty years old, had lovely deep-set eyes, wavy black hair, and a pleasing figure. Extraordinarily large feet were Constança’s only unattractive feature; she was conscious of this and pushed her feet into shoes that were several sizes too small. Constança was also painfully shy. During their courtship, André had taken this to be a well-bred daughter’s natural reticence; but since their marriage she had grown so quiet that Raimundo da Silva was prompted to ask if his daughter-in-law was sick. André discovered that it was neither illness nor modesty that troubled Constança; quite simply, she had nothing to say. She was a disappointment to him.

  A week before the birth of José Inocêncio, André had given her a hint of his involvement with the coming revolution: “Alferes Silva Xavier and others see a day coming when Minas Gerais will be liberated. A land where our child can be free.”

  Constança had nodded.

  “May we be blessed with a son who, when he grows to manhood, will not have to bow to tyrants.”

  Constança had nodded again.

  “He will pay no derrama but taxes decided on by the people.”

  “Oh, Senhor André,” she had wailed suddenly, “our queen in Portugal won’t allow this disobedience!”

  “The queen won’t be able to prevent it.”

  “God confided power in Dona Maria,” Constança had said, a look of acute distress on her normally placid face. “It’s our duty to accept her rule.”

  Senhor Raimundo da Silva shared Constança’s opinion. It was his contention that without the protection of Portugal, Brazil would cease to exist; one by one, the captaincies would fall to the Spaniards, who continued to covet the colony. Senhor Raimundo offered an alternative to independence: “An old and exhausted parent deserves nourishment and restoration in his child’s house. Mother Portugal is drained by centuries of discovery and conquest and needs the same succor. Brazil must open her house to Dona Maria and the Braganças. Let the court leave Lisbon and establish itself here. With the resources of Brazil, the Portuguese Empire can be restored.”

  André’s response was only to point out that Portuguese royalty would never uproot itself from Europe to settle in remote America among men who were considered barbarians.

  It was for old Raimundo’s own protection that André had not taken his father into his confidence about the depth of his involvement with the revolutionary plot. Nor had André made any attempt to involve his brother, Dionésio, who lived at the fazenda on the road to Cachoeira do Campo. As far as Dionésio knew, the kegs André and Fernandes had placed in the storeroom there contained vinegar.

  Luis Fialho Soares and Fernandes were among the guests at the house during the baptismal celebration, but they exchanged few words about the events anticipated a week from now. Silva Xavier, however, couldn’t contain his zeal. At one point during the afternoon, he put his arm around André’s shoulders and steered him toward a balcony fronting the second story of the house.

  “Oh, my friend, I thank you for this honor,” Silva Xavier said, when André and he stood alone on the balcony. “I vow that I won’t rest until liberty is assured for my godson.”

  “God willing, Joaquim José, my son will one day offer you thanks for this precious gift.”

  “There will be others worthier than I in the struggle for independence.”

  “Men inspired by you, Joaquim José.”

  Silva Xavier placed both of his long, slender hands on the balcony railing. He looked in the direction of the governor’s town palace, which was on a rise off to the right of the rua das Flôres. “The visconde de Barbacena, too, has a role to play by affixing his seal to the proclamation of the derrama.”

  “His intention remains firm?”

  “I hear nothing to the contrary.”

  They stayed on the balcony for a while, discussing their plans, until Silva Xavier rejoined the celebration to propose a toast for his godson:

  “To the firstborn son of André Vaz da Silva and Constança Oliveira. May God who rules our destinies grant this child a life in which he will enjoy his birthright as a free citizen of our America.”

  “A derrama!” Silva Xavier struck the top of a table in Luis Fialho’s study with the side of his hand. “A derrama, they cry, like so many nervous sheep bleating among themselves. To hell with the derrama! For the love of God, let us take up arms!”

  It was March 1, 1789. For two weeks the conspirators had awaited the proclamation of the new tax, but no announcement had come from the visconde’s residence at Cachoeira do Campo. Silva Xavier saw the delay weakening the resolve of the plotters, and he was sharing his concern with Luis Fialho, Fernandes, and André, whom he had found together at the lawyer’s house this Sunday, three weeks after the baptism of José Inocêncio.

  “I don’t have the grace or gentility of Dr. Cláudio Manuel. I’m not a man of wealth — or debt — like Silvério dos Reis. I’ve been told that I’m not fit to command like Colonel Freire de Andrade. I’m the alferes, the Tooth-Puller. Was I wrong to hope that these men would listen to me?”

  “Joaquim José, not one of us doubts your word or your dedication,” Luis Fialho responded. “I feel the same restlessness, but we must wait.”

  “If the visconde delays the derrama for six months? A year? We’ll see our poets returning to compose their odes, our debtors groveling at the feet of Her Majesty’s fiscal agents, our people with heavier chains to drag around.”

  Silva Xavier continued his argument: “We don’t have to wait to launch our rebellion at the whim or pleasure of Her Majesty’s servants. Colonel Alvarenga Peixoto’s militia are ready in the south. Padre Rolim has his support in the diamond district. At Vila Rica, the ranks of our dragoons seethe with the urge to fight. What more is needed?” The others were silent. “My dear comrades, are we truly such slaves that we have to be whipped to the post of liberty?”

  Late afternoon, March 9, Senhor Raimundo was dozing on the bench next to the doorway of the shop when Silva Xavier arrived. Silva Xavier spoke with Senhor Raimundo for a few minutes, then went inside to André. “I have to talk with you,” he said. He glanced back at André’s father. “Not here. Let’s walk.�
�� They started down the rua das Flôres toward Vila Rica’s main square.

  The derrama had not been proclaimed. During the past nine days, Silva Xavier had continued to argue that the rebellion should be launched immediately, but to no avail.

  “Judge Gonzaga says His Excellency hesitates to impose the derrama because he fears the reaction of the Mineiros,” the alferes said. “Could it be that the visconde reads the mood of the Mineiro better than his would be liberators?”

  They had reached the square. The governor’s town palace was to their left; they turned right, walking toward the city barracks of the dragoons and Vila Rica’s jail, which was at the bottom of the square.

  “My colonel has retired to his fazenda, where he waits like patient Job,” Silva Xavier continued. “While Andrade and the rest wait, their confusion grows. Some now suggest that the visconde de Barbacena himself should be lured to the side of independence. He’s young and ambitious and can be tempted by the prospect of leading a new American nation, they say. What nonsense! He’s a fidalgo who savors the touch of his lips to Dona Maria’s hand. He’s as likely to embrace our cause as sup with the devil!”

  Approaching the jail, Silva Xavier headed toward the right of the building and an incline upon which stood the Church of Nossa Senhora do Carmo.

  “I agree the longer we delay, the more confusion,” André said. “But what can we do, Joaquim?”

  “That’s why I came to see you. I can’t wait another day.”

  “But without the support of Colonel Andrade, of Alvarenga Peixoto —”

  “The only man with spirit! Alvarenga Peixoto agrees we must fight. Now! His men are ready to block the road over the Mantiqueira and the approaches from São Paulo. ‘Hold the passes!’ says Alvarenga Peixoto. ‘Establish bases in the mountains. Ten thousand men from Portugal won’t dislodge our patriots!’”

  “So! Alvarenga Peixoto marches to battle! I’ll be ready, Joaquim!” André, Fernandes, and others were responsible for bringing the gunpowder from the da Silva fazenda to Vila Rica to supply the insurgents who would infiltrate the city from the surrounding hills. They were also to participate in fomenting the disturbances in the streets.

  Silva Xavier shook his head. “Alvarenga Peixoto’s hands are tied by the majority.” As they walked up toward the church, they both crossed themselves; then Silva Xavier said quietly, “I’m leaving Vila Rica.”

  “Leaving? Now?”

  “I’m going to Rio de Janeiro to speak with the men there who also hope for liberty. I’ll tell them the Mineiro revolution is primed — a flash through the touchhole and Minas Gerais will explode in rebellion. We need only one incident to provide that flash.”

  “What incident?”

  They were walking slowly along a stone path beside the church. Silva Xavier stopped and seized André’s arm. “The month of May,” he said, his eyes bright. “The royal fifth will be transported to Rio de Janeiro with this year’s extortion of fifty arrôbas. The gold will never leave Minas Gerais. There, on the Mantiqueira road, our patriot militia will seize the royal fifth!”

  André was momentarily speechless. Capture the gold convoy? The most heavily guarded transport? Even Rope Dancer, with one hundred bandits at his side, couldn’t hope to take Dona Maria’s treasure. But if it were possible . . . “What have others said about this?”

  “I’ve told very few. I don’t want to be bombarded with excuses. At Rio de Janeiro, I’ll find out when the warship sent from Lisbon to collect the royal fifth is expected to arrive. The Mantiqueira I know as well as Rope Dancer himself. I’ll think this through carefully. When I have a definite plan, I’ll go to Alvarenga Peixoto for the men to carry it out.”

  They sat on a low wall behind the church for half an hour, talking until the sun went down behind the hills beyond the city.

  Silva Xavier told him that in the morning he would go to the visconde de Barbacena’s palace to ask for leave from his regiment and apply for a passport to travel to Rio de Janeiro. “I’ve spread the word that I’m needed at the capital — to attend to my plans for a canal.”

  They started back toward the square. They were below the Carmo church and walking along next to the jail when Silva Xavier suddenly touched André’s arm lightly: The Little Cripple was hobbling across the cobblestones beside his slave.

  “God bless him,” Silva Xavier said. “He can hardly walk; his fingers are gone, his hands reduced to stumps; his teeth are falling out. If all who long for liberty had the courage of The Little Cripple, this very night you and I would walk the streets of Vila Rica as free citizens of our Republic of Minas Gerais.”

  The next morning, Silva Xavier went to Cachoeira do Campo and obtained permission to go to Rio de Janeiro. At the governor’s palace, he met Colonel Alvarenga Peixoto, who was there to pay his respects to the visconde de Barbacena.

  Silva Xavier spoke very briefly with Alvarenga Peixoto: “While we wait for something to happen among these blunderheads, I’ll learn who at Rio de Janeiro encouraged José de Maia’s contacts with Thomas Jefferson.” On an earlier occasion, Silva Xavier had spoken with Alvarenga Peixoto about seizing the royal fifth; now he only remarked, “I’m also going to seek the means for a generous contribution from the Crown itself.”

  Going back toward Vila Rica, from where he would leave immediately for the south, Silva Xavier met another conspirator riding to Cachoeira do Campo: Senhor Joaquim Silvério dos Reis, the tax contractor, who to this day remained indebted to the royal treasury for the equivalent of almost a ton of gold.

  Senhor Silvério dos Reis wore clothes of the finest cut, but as he sat upon his horse with its silver trappings, he groaned, “They’ll see me a beggar yet, Alferes. The junta threaten to sequester all my property. They would strip these clothes off my back and auction my breeches if they could.”

  The past week had been harrowing for the Crown debtor, who had been pressed to meet his obligations by the Junta da Fazenda, the treasury board at Vila Rica.

  Silva Xavier knew the tax contractor’s unsavory reputation, but believed that Senhor Silvério’s difficulties stemmed largely from the repressive administration. Silva Xavier liked to think of himself as a friend of the magnate, for men like Silvério dos Reis and Rodrigo de Macedo, the other great debtor, were certain to prosper when free trade was allowed, and they could assist him with his civil-engineering projects.

  They were not together for long. Silvério dos Reis had an appointment with the governor. “I ride like a serf to prostrate myself at the master’s feet. I have to beg the visconde for extensions. Debts! Debts! Debts! Mother of Mercy, how weary I am of these battles over debt.”

  “Courage, Senhor Silvério. Your only battle will be the good fight.”

  Joaquim Silvério dos Reis had no intention of waiting for the good fight promised by Alferes Silva Xavier.

  “Your Excellency, I have come to settle the debt I owe the royal treasury,” he told the visconde de Barbacena later that morning of March l0, 1789.

  They were in a parlor overlooking a small quince orchard. The visconde stood, hands clasped behind his back, at a window watching a group of slaves at work beneath the trees. He did not turn around. “What do you propose this time, Senhor Silvério?”

  “Excellency, the junta accepts the word of false witnesses and records every lie and accusation made by my enemies. They haven’t a good word to say about me, though as God is my witness, you’ll find no subject at Vila Rica more loyal or with greater affection for his queen.”

  The visconde turned slowly, adjusting a high curl at the side of his powdered wig. “You amaze me, Senhor Silvério. For years you fail to submit payments due on contracts generously awarded to you by the Crown. Yet you can stand here proclaiming loyalty to Dona Maria, as if you are one of the most esteemed knights of her realm. Can you give me any reason to disbelieve the findings of my junta?”

  “I don’t deny that I owe the money. God knows, it’s more than two hundred milreis. A fortune, Excellency, but no
thing to what I can offer in settlement.”

  “Let me hear.” The visconde plucked at a loose thread on a shirt frill.

  “There are influential men who contemplate the ruin of Her Majesty’s government at Minas Gerais.”

  “I’m well aware of this.”

  The color drained from Silvério dos Reis’s face. “Your Excellency knows?”

  “Certainly, Senhor Silvério, the air of Minas Gerais is turbulent,” the visconde said. “Hotheads everywhere, filled with infatuation for alien ideas. Men moaning about Portugal’s unjust and oppressive rule. I knew this before I arrived. I also came with detailed information about an army of gold and diamond thieves, contrabandists, and other men who defraud the royal treasury, Senhor Silvério dos Reis.”

  “It’s much more than idle talk about alien ideas, Excellency.” When the visconde looked at him inquiringly, Silvério dos Reis took a deep breath and plunged ahead.

  “Your Excellency, you welcome into your palace the very men who plot your destruction.”

  “What are you suggesting, senhor?”

  “Around you, Excellency, there are men — Judge Tómas Antônio Gonzaga and Cláudio Manuel da Costa, whose poems you praise so highly; Alvarenga Peixoto; young José Alvares Maciel, to whom you entrust the tutoring of your children. These and many others plot a revolution to overthrow you and abolish Portugal’s rule over this captaincy. They wait only for you to impose the derrama; then they’ll launch a rebellion, declare independence, and proclaim a republic.”

  And so Silvério dos Reis, who had long been regarded as a scoundrel by many, denounced the independence movement to the visconde de Barbacena. For this service to Her Majesty, he asked that the visconde seek a full pardon from the Crown for his debts.

  “Tell no one of our discussion, Senhor Silvério, even though they share your horror of this conspiracy,” the visconde said when they parted. “When I’ve decided what action to take, I’ll summon you.”