Conquistadora (26 page)

“In twenty-four year work for doña Benigna and don Felipe,” Flora said to Inés and José, “I never hear yell so much like doña Ana and don Ramón.”

“My other
patrona
would die,” Inés said, “before arguing with her husband where other people could hear.”

“We’re not ‘other people’ to them,” José said. “We’re not people at all. If there was other
blancos
around, they’d be smiling and pretending they like each other.”

“That’s true.
Allá ellos que son blancos y se entienden
. Look at them now.” Inés gestured with her head toward the
casona
, where Ramón and Ana were having dinner with Severo Fuentes on the porch as if the argument earlier that afternoon had never taken place.

The slaves’ meals were eaten outdoors, too, but not at a carved table. They sat on the ground, on stumps along the shady side of the barracks, or on the thresholds or steps to the
bohíos
. While older girls washed and cleaned up after supper, the adults had a chance to relax and watch the children play. Because Teo served the
casona
’s meals, Flora had a couple of hours until Ana rang her bell to let her know she was ready for her bath.

Flora liked Inés and José and their two boys, Efraín and Indio. They were all born in Puerto Rico, but José’s parents were both Yoruba, which explained his artistry with wood. Inés’s parents were born in Puerto Rico, but she remembered her Igbo maternal grandmother and paternal Mandinka grandfather. Both José and Inés were sold as children, never again to see their parents, sisters, and brothers. When she thought about this, Flora was glad she didn’t have children. She still had nightmares about her firstborn being flung over the side of the boat that stole her from Africa, and the bloody miscarriage of her second child after Mistress pushed her down the stairs. She felt lucky that, after she was sold to don Felipe,
neither he nor any other
blanco
forced himself on her. Don Felipe didn’t make her marry one of his male slaves, either, because doña Benigna forbade it.

“Look how small she is, how narrow her hips,” she told her husband. “She’s likely to die giving birth, and where will I get another Pygmy?”

By the time she overheard that conversation, Flora had long decided that if this was life, she’d never deliberately bring another human being into the world.

Miguel was playing with Pepita and Indio a few paces from her. He was the only white child on the hacienda, the only healthy one, the only one wearing clothes. Until about four years old, most boys and girls were naked, their round bellies out of proportion to their skinny limbs. They were malnourished and suffered from intestinal parasites. Flora knew that half the
negritos
chasing each other around the
batey
wouldn’t live to be adolescents, their bodies unable to withstand tropical anemia,
paludismo
, measles, tuberculosis, tetanus, meningitis. Half the girls who reached puberty would die in childbirth or soon thereafter, and the boys who grew to manhood would die by their early forties from overwork, disease, and accidents in the fields. A few would be maimed or crippled, another one or two would commit suicide. And there was always the possibility that any of them, child or adult, could be sold for money or to settle debts.

“If they go back to the city,” Flora said, “they’ll sell us to don Luis.”

“¡Ay, no!”
Inés said. “Siña Damita’s youngest son goes up to San Bernabé on errands for don Severo, and he says there isn’t a more pitiful group than the ones in their barracks.”

“Artemio says the
patrones
have a big house, and they’re building another one. But the workers live in a barn. Men, women, and children in one building,” José said. “At least we get our own
bohíos
here.”

“That man is two-face,” Flora said. “He smile and make
blancos
think he friend, but he cunning. He has don Ramón like this.” Flora put up her pinky and twirled it around. “I hope he don’t sell us to him.”

“He can’t,” José said. “We belong to don Severo.”

“If they sell the hacienda,” Inés said, “Severo must not scatter us.”

“He won’t,” José said. “He told us he wouldn’t.”

“You believe him?” Flora sucked her teeth. “
Blancos
will say anything.”

“But he usually buys families,” José said, “like Siña Damita’s. And us, and Teo and Paula …”

“He thinks if we have our families here, we won’t want to run.”

“I’d never leave you and my sons.”

“But what if,” Flora said, “Efraín or Indio try to run away?”

“Ay, let’s not talk about that,” Inés said.
“Dios salve.”

Including Flora, every
bozal
at Hacienda los Gemelos had attempted escape, and a couple of the
criollos
, too. Before the
patrones
arrived, don Severo had lined up the new arrivals with the slaves already in the hacienda and told them that if they tried to run away, he would find them.

“And when I do,” he said. “I will not trade you away. I will not hobble or cripple you so you can’t run again. The law gives me the right to whip you before I hang you in front of the others, in front of your husbands, in front of your wives, in front of your children until you die.”

After Inocente’s murder, they knew he meant it. When he came back from searching for Alejo and Curro, smelling of death, his hounds at his heels, they didn’t need details to know that don Severo had killed the
cimarrones
. Weeks later, they heard how he did it. His vicious dogs, the efficient single slice of his machete across their necks, the blood soaking into the earth were still talked about among slaves and masters alike.

Young boys like Efraín were used by the
mayordomos
and
patrones
as messengers. They passed on what they saw, but they weren’t as reliable as the hired workers who also brought stories from nearby villages and from town. But the most dependable source of information for the workers at Hacienda los Gemelos was Siña Damita.

As a free woman, she went where she was needed so long as she carried the notarized papers stating that she was a
liberta
. She traveled on a spavined mule that might collapse at any moment and that she cared for and fed as if the animal were a thoroughbred stallion. She was the best
curandera
and midwife in the area, so she needed to move quickly when called to attend women in labor, to cure children with fevers, to bandage wounds and salve bruises. The doctor
in town, Dr. Vieira, preferred to treat the wealthy and left the others to
curanderas
like Siña Damita.

Most of the
campesinos
paid for her cures and treatments with a few eggs, a bunch of bananas, a length of cloth. Some of her work, however, had nothing to do with sickness. She went to Guares weekly to deliver love potions, to cleanse rooms of disturbed forces, to counteract the effects of the evil eye, to conjure restless spirits, to rinse the hands of gamblers for good luck. For this
trabajo
, she expected money, at least one Spanish real, sometimes more, depending on the work. She was often consulted to resolve family squabbles, and was the intermediary for parents who needed to place a child in the household of a wealthier relative or friend.
Hijos de crianza
were raised and educated by foster parents. Siña Damita looked in on the children to make sure they were being treated well by their new families, and reported back to the parents, who usually lived far from them. In at least one case she placed a baby whose mother didn’t want her with a woman who’d just lost her own child. For that
trabajo
she received ten Spanish pesos, the most money she’d earned at one time.

Siña Damita was saving her money to free Lucho, her husband. Once she bought him his freedom, they could work together to manumit their sons, Poldo, Jorge, Artemio; their daughters-in-law, Coral and Elí; and their grandchildren. So far, in the six years she’d been saving, Siña Damita had accumulated thirty-two pesos, two reales, a small portion of the three hundred pesos don Severo wanted for Lucho, who was forty years old, strong and a trained butcher.

The opportunities to make money in Guares were increasing as what used to be a village grew into a town. The
jíbaros
squatting on unclaimed lands along the harbor were being evicted as the municipal government took over and made the plots available for homes, offices, businesses, warehouses, and stores.

The town now had a middle and a professional class. The sons of successful
hacendados
returned from their studies in Europe full of idealism and optimism. As Siña Damita moved among her customers, she heard news, rumors, gossip that she shared with her family and friends at Hacienda los Gemelos.

Blancos
treated all blacks, free or enslaved, as if they were invisible. They talked, argued, wooed, and complained within sight and
hearing of blacks whom they believed to be stupid and unable to understand or care. Siña Damita was both intelligent and interested, especially if these conversations had anything to do with her as a
liberta
and the wife and mother of an enslaved family. In 1847 and 1848 the new and settled inhabitants around Guares and its environs were preoccupied with wars, invasions, and revolutions in France, Mexico, the Dominican Republic, and Italy. She didn’t know where those places were, but she knew that in those distant lands people were rising against oppressive governments and demanding rights that were granted only after much bloodshed.

When
blancos
talked about what was happening across the ocean, they usually ended up trying to ascertain how those events might affect Puerto Rico. Siña Damita heard
señores
venting their frustrations with the Spanish government’s laws.
Hacendados
and merchants complained that the fees, duties, and taxes they paid were sent to the Spanish treasury, leaving no money for public works on the island. Thousands of soldiers, she’d heard, waited in vain for guns, ammunition, horses, and salaries that never arrived.

One night, Siña Damita was attending the death vigil of an
hacendado
. As she crossed from the bedroom to the outhouse, she heard one of the sons telling the other that after planting, harvesting, processing, and transporting sugar, their father owed fees, taxes, customs, and export duties amounting to 117 percent of his income that year.

“Our government is strangling us slowly,” the younger son said.

“And not a single official is a native Puerto Rican,” the older one continued. “All those jobs are reserved for
españoles
who couldn’t care less about the future of this island.”

“So long as we’re a colony, we’ll suffer these indignities. It’s intolerable. Things must change.”

Siña Damita knew that she could make money if she reported that conversation to the authorities. It was against the law to criticize the government, to talk openly about independence. But she also knew that independence for Puerto Rico would mean the abolition of slavery. It had happened in every other former Spanish colony.

It was unusual to hear young people talking like the
hacendado
’s sons. Something told her that the climate was changing. Maybe these young
criollos
returning from their travels in Europe and in the United States were seeing things differently from their conservative parents. It could only be good news for the slaves. Siña Damita
wasn’t going to say anything that might silence those kinds of conversations in any home in the land.

As the 1848
zafra
wound down, Siña Damita could spend more time with her husband and sons. Severo wrote a pass so that Lucho, Jorge, Poldo; their wives, Coral and Elí; their children; and Artemio could spend Sunday afternoons in Damita’s
bohío
once they finished their chores. A few times they arrived to an empty cabin, because she’d been called away. Lucho and their sons repaired and improved the cottage while the women cooked whatever she’d left for them.

One Sunday afternoon Siña Damita rode up when it was almost time for the family to start the walk back to the hacienda. She was bone-tired from a long vigil in Guares, and when she reached her
bohío
, she was as breathless as her wheezing mule.

“The town is upside down,” she said. “Slaves on another island killed the masters and burned the estates.”

“What island? How close?” Jorge asked.

“Martinca, something like that … I don’t know. Ay,
nena
, some water.” Coral went to the barrel while Lucho helped Damita to sit on the threshold.
“Gracias, hija.”
She drained the cup.

“Take a minute, Mamá,” Jorge said. “We’re not leaving until you tell us.”

Siña Damita took a few deep breaths, but she was too excited. “This little boat sail with
blanco
families. It was miracle they not drowned. There was men, women, and kids. When they come to shore, one woman got on knees to kiss the sand! They didn’t speak one word of Spanish, but don Tibó translated. Ay! More water,
hija
!”

“Don Tibó? The Frenchman who owns the cantina?”

“Yes,” Siña Damita said. “He said that the French government freed the slaves on their island, but … I don’t know why … There were riots and burnings … people killed. The captain in Guares put soldiers on alert. They’re sending word to haciendas. I was stopped five time before I got here. Sure you have all your papers and travel together. Now you better go back to Los Gemelos. The soldiers think we will rebel, too.… I don’t want you in trouble. Go! I be fine. I come tomorrow morning.”
The refugees that Siña Damita saw kissing the sands in Guares had fled from widespread slave uprisings in the French colonies of Martinique and Guadeloupe in advance of official manumission. They and others brought tales of entire families slaughtered in their beds, their houses and belongings set on fire while groups of self-liberated slaves roamed the countryside.

“Our people are aware of events,” Severo told Ana and Ramón. “Sometimes they hear things before we do.”