1636: Seas of Fortune (2 page)

Bento nodded approvingly. “Kill the fathers first, enjoy the virgins afterward,” he reminded his band. They didn’t need the reminder; and half their work was done already. They laughed as they chased down the women.

* * *

The da Costa family had helped finance some of the sugar mills in Bahia, and it made arrangements for the sugar boats, en route to Lisbon, to stop in Belém and see if Henrique had any rubber for pickup. Those ships came up the coast monthly . . . assuming they weren’t picked off by Dutch privateers near Recife. And the captains didn’t mind the stopover too much; it wasn’t out of their way and they could take on food and water.

The visits had increased Henrique’s popularity in Belém. The town mostly exported tobacco, cotton, and dye wood, but not enough to warrant regular contact. There was some sugarcane grown in the area, but it was used locally to make liquor. So Belém was a backwater compared to Recife. Before rubber tapping began, a whole year could go by without a vessel coming into port.

Henrique was under orders to expand production, but to do that he needed to find more rubber trees, and more Indians to milk them. He hoped that the town leaders, who were mostly plantation owners, would help him now. They had looked down on him for years as a
mateiro
, a woodsman, and a small-time merchant. The stuttering hadn’t helped, either.

* * *

“Henrique, I am astonished,” said Francisco de Sousa. He was the president of the Municipal Chamber of Belém. “I never would have expected a bachelor, in Belém no less, to have such an elegant dinner presentation.”

“Th-th-thank you,
Cavaleiro
Francisco. It is in large part my late m-m-mother’s legacy.”

“I particularly like your centerpiece,” his wife added.

“It is a family . . . heirloom.” The piece in question was a massive flowerpot.

Henrique had hired extra servants for the occasion. They brought in one serving after another. First came a
mingau
porridge, followed by a
farinha
-sprinkled
pirarucu
, caught earlier that day. There were Brazil nuts, palm hearts, and mangoes, too. The meal ended with a sweet tapioca tortilha.

“So what are you doing with those Indians?”

Henrique had known this question would come, and had rehearsed his answer with Maurício, to make sure he could deliver it smoothly.

“There is a tree that produces a milky sap. They tap the tree, a bit as you would a pine tree to collect turpentine. The sap hardens into a substance which is waterproof, and can stretch and . . . bounce.”
Grrr
, Henrique thought.
I almost made it through my spiel. I hate B’s.

“Bounce?”

“Wait.” He left, and returned with a rubber ball. He dropped it, and it returned to his waiting hand, much to their amazement.

“So, there’s a market for this?”

“Somewhat. The rubber can be used to make hats and b-b-boots to protect you from the rain. And I understand that it can be applied in some way to ordinary cloth so that the fabric stays dry, but I don’t how that’s done.

“I could produce and sell more, if only I had enough tappers.”

“Perhaps I can help you there. I can demand labor from the Indians at the
aldeia
of Cameta. We just need to agree on a price.”

* * *

“What are you doing here, B-B-Bento?” Henrique had seen the slaver, followed by several of his buddies, saunter into the village clearing. Henrique kept his hand near the hilt of his
facão
.

“Just paying a friendly visit to these Indian friends of yours, H-H-Henrique,” Bento said, imitating Henrique’s stutter as usual.

“You’ve been making life difficult for folks, Henrique. I hear you’re paying your tappers ten
varas
of cloth a month. It’s making it tough to get Indians to do real work.”

“Ten
varas
isn’t much, Bento.” A
vara
was about thirty-three inches. The largesse had not entirely been of Henrique’s choosing, although he was known to be sympathetic to the Indians; he had specific instructions about wages from Lisbon.

“It is when the Indians are accustomed to working for four. Or three. Or two.”

“Or none, in your case.”

“Yes, well, it’s my natural charisma. Anyway, dear Henrique, you want to watch you don’t end up like Friar Cristovão de Lisboa.” Cristovão had preached a sermon against settlers who abused the Indians, and later someone had shot at him.

“I assure you that I am extremely careful.” Henrique’s own men had in the meantime flanked Bento’s party. Bento affected not to notice, but several of his men were shifting their eyes back and forth, trying to keep track of Henrique’s allies.

“So I thought I’d have a palaver with the big chief here. Mebbe he’s got some enemies he’d like to ransom.” If a Portuguese bought a prisoner condemned to ritual execution, he was entitled to the former captive’s life; that is, he had acquired a slave. An “Indian of the cord.”

“You know the Tapajós don’t ransom. How many times have you tried this?”

“Aw, can’t hurt to ask. And look at this bee-yoo-tiful cross I brought the chief, as a present. Hey chief, you want this? It would look real sweet right in the center of your village.”

The chief gave Henrique a questioning look. Henrique shook his head, fractionally.

“Sorry, no,” said the chief. “It is too beautiful for our poor village, it would make everything else look drab.”

Henrique thought,
Good for you
. The cross was a scam. If the cross fell, or was allowed to fall into disrepair, then it was evidence that the tribe opposed the Catholic Church, and war upon it would be just. Leading, of course, to the enslavement of the survivors. The Tapajós were a strong tribe, and the slavers so far had been leery of attacking them, but that could change.

“Well, I can see I’m not welcome here today,” said Bento. “I’ll go make my own camp. But remember, Henrique, there’s always tomorrow.”

* * *

Whump!
Henrique ducked, just in time, and took cover. He looked around, trying to spot the shooter. As he did so, one part of his mind wondered what had been shot at him. The sound hadn’t been quite that of a bullet, or an arrow, or even a slingshot. More like a grenade exploding, although that made no sense at all.

It happened again.
Whump!
Suddenly, he realized that the Indian tappers were completely ignoring the sound. With the exception of one, who was laughing his head off.

Henrique rose cautiously. “What’s making that sound?” Laughing Boy pointed upward at the fruits hanging from the rubber tree, and then down at the ground. It was thus that Henrique discovered just how the rubber tree spreads its seeds.

His superiors in Lisbon would be very pleased. Henrique had received precise instructions to collect seeds, if he found them. Henrique set the Indians to work.

Belém do Pará, Early 1634 (In Rainy Season)

Henrique fumbled with the door, and stepped into his home. He stumbled. Looking down, he saw that he had tripped over a cracked vase.

It was no ordinary vase. It was Henrique’s magnificent flower pot. When it wasn’t gracing his dining room, it reposed in a case in his foyer. His housekeeper, apparently, had taken it out to clean it, dropped it, and then fled the house.

Henrique blanched. His reaction had nothing to do with the cost of the piece, or even its sentimental value.

Did she see the secret compartment?
he wondered.

He was hopeful that she hadn’t. He studied it carefully. What he found wasn’t good. The vase wasn’t merely cracked; a piece had broken off and been reset. Lifting it off again, he could see into the compartment. Unless the woman were completely devoid of curiosity, she would have looked inside. And what she would have seen would have been far too revealing. A
b’samin
spice box. A small goblet. And, most damning of all, a miniature
hanukkiya
. The housekeeper was a
caboclo
, a half-Indian, and had certainly received enough religious instruction at an
aldeia
to know what that signified.

It was the
hanukkiya
, a silver candelabra, that was missing. And that led to some fevered speculations. Had she taken it as evidence, to show to the authorities? If so, his hours were numbered.

Henrique thrust his
facão
into his belt sheath, and barred the door. He loaded a musket, and set it close by.

The soldiers would be sent to arrest him. There was no inquisitor in Belém, but an inspector would be sent from Lisbon. Henrique would be questioned, tortured. He would be called upon to repent his heresy, and he would refuse. Eventually they would classify him as a recalcitrant, and the Inquisition would recommend his execution. He would don the black
sanbenito
, tastefully decorated with pictures of flames and devils, and be paraded to the place of execution. He would be tied to the stake and—

Wait a moment. Perhaps she was planning to melt it down, knowing that he wouldn’t dare report a theft?

Of course, even if cupidity had triumphed over piety, he was in trouble. Unless she could convert it to an innocuous ingot herself, she would have to recruit an assistant, who might alert the Church. And even if she didn’t arouse any suspicion, life wouldn’t be the same. She might blackmail him, or denounce him if he did something to displease her.

As a secret Jew, Henrique had known that his life might come to this turning point. It was time to get moving.

There was a knock at the door. Henrique put the musket on full cock. “Who’s there?”

“Maurício.”

“Are you alone?”

“Yes.” His voice sounded puzzled, not nervous or fearful.

“Bide a moment.” Henrique uncocked the weapon, and set it down again. He unbarred the door, took a quick look at the street past Maurício, and pulled his servant into the room.

“What—”

“Bar the door again,” Henrique said. “I am glad you returned in time.” Maurício had been off on an errand to Cameta.

Maurício fiddled with the door. “I hope you have a good explanation.”

Henrique started throwing provisions into a sack. Cassava bread. Beef jerky. Acai fruit. “I have to flee for my life. Actually, we both do.”

“What’s wrong?” Maurício asked. Henrique told him.

Maurício raised his eyebrows. “I certainly don’t want to see you get burned as a heretic. But why exactly do I have to flee? Can’t you just, oh, tie me up so I can swear that I wasn’t complicit in your crimes?”

“Sure. But they would probably put you to the torture anyway, you being my long-faithful servant and all.

“Even if they didn’t, the Church will seize my assets. And where would that put you?”

Maurício blanched. Under Portuguese law, an ex-slave could be re-enslaved by the creditors if his former master went into debt.

“Is there a ship about to leave for Lisbon?” Maurício asked. “We could board it, and outrun the bad news. Once in the city, we could lose ourselves in the crowd, perhaps sail someplace outside the reach of the Inquisition. France, perhaps.”

Henrique shook his head. “A sugar boat came through two weeks ago.” They didn’t have a regular schedule, but they came up the coast once a month, on average. There was no reason for another to appear within the next week.

Henrique pried up a floorboard, probed underneath with a stick. In Amazonia, you didn’t search a dark opening with your hand. Not unless you were fond of snakes. He pulled out a pouch, which held money and jewels. He might need to bribe someone to make good his escape.

“Could we reach Pernambuco? Or Palmares?” There was a Dutch enclave in Pernambuco. And, farther south, in Palmares, there was a
mocambo
of runaway slaves.

“We’d never make it by sea; both the wind and the current would be against us.” That was, in fact, why Maranhão had been made a separate state, reporting directly to Lisbon, in 1621; it was too difficult to communicate with Salvador do Bahia in the south. Coasters did go as far south as São Luis, the capital of Maranhão, but taking one would just delay the inevitable. The authorities in Belém would send word to São Luis, and the latter was too small a place to hide for long.

“And the overland route is completely unexplored. Nor would the map from the future aid us there.”

Maurício had started collecting his own possessions. Mostly books. “Then why not sail north? There are English, and Dutch and French, in Guiana and the Caribbean. We might even get picked up en route by a Dutch cruiser.”

Henrique was sure he was forgetting something important. Ah, yes, a hammock. You didn’t want to sleep on the ground in the rainforest. Not if you didn’t like things crawling over your skin. Or burrowing into it. Hammocks were a native invention, which the Portuguese had adopted. And that reminded Henrique of a few other native items he needed. He gathered those up, too.

“Henrique, are you going to answer me?”

“Going north is what the garrison would expect us to do. And before you ask, they would be equally on guard against the possibility that friends would hide us, and smuggle us onto the next sugar boat to Lisbon.”

“So, what are we going to do? Did the people from the future teach your family how we might turn ourselves invisible?”

“In a way. We will flee into the Amazon, lose ourselves among the trees of the vast rainforest. Go native. At least for a time.”

Maurício wailed. “But I’ll run out of reading matter!”

* * *

Captain Diogo Soares shook his head. His good friend, Henrique Pereira da Costa, a Judaizer! He could scarcely credit it. Perhaps it was a mistake, a dreadful mistake. Although Henrique’s flight was certainly evidence of guilt.

Diogo leaned back in his chair. Even an innocent man, if he thought he was to be the target of an accusation of heresy, might flee. Especially one with enemies, who might try to influence the inquisitors. Everyone knew that Henrique had enemies. The younger Bento Maciel Parente, for example.

The captain’s superiors thought that Henrique had boarded a southbound coaster. A fishing boat had been commandeered, and was heading down to São Luis already, to stop what boats it found, and also warn the authorities. The governor of Maranhão could also send a
guarda costa
back up the coast, and make sure that Henrique hadn’t tried sailing north, to Guiana.