Chapter 4
Recife, Brazil
Calabar’s home lay near the western wall of Recife, a small one-level apartamento that still contained many of the furnishings from when the Portuguese controlled the town. His wife Celia and children Lua, Martim, and Carlos, greeted him warmly. Celia hugged her husband and kissed him repeatedly on the mouth and face. Lua and Carlos giggled at the lively affection, and Calabar was more than half embarrassed.
Not a man who showed his gentler emotions freely in any situation, he tried pulling away to get in a word, but ultimately failed. He was drawn into the living room and his martial accoutrements—pistol, knife, sword, and powder horn—were removed by the children. They tried playing with them, but Calabar put a stop to that quickly. So, they pretended that they were soldiers, saluting and marching in the service of the Dutch, just as they imagined their father did. Even Lua, who most often refused to play soldier games with her brothers, allowed Martim and Carlos to chase her about the room, making popping noises while pulling the trigger on her make-believe gun. Calabar watched his children play for most of the afternoon, laughed and danced with them, and felt more relaxed than he had in weeks.
That evening, they praised God and dined on tender capybara meat, dried iguana, boiled radishes, and the remains of the bread and juice given to him by Tromp. They talked about the weather, Celia’s cooking, the sewing repairs that Lua had finished on her doll, a picture of a bird that Martim had sketched in writer’s ink. Calabar practiced Dutch with the children, and he was much pleased with their improvement. Lua especially, who showed great skills with languages just like Luiz. Her intonation and inflection were near perfect now, and Martim’s was improving. But Carlos grew weaker and weaker as the day wore on, and by supper, he could only take a few bites of meat and radish. Celia put him to bed early while Calabar read passages from the Bible to Lua and Martim until they too were nodding off. One after the other, he carried them to their own beds.
The house now was quiet, and Calabar followed his wife into their bedroom, where he slipped off his clothing and sat in a tub that Celia had filled with warm, clean water. He dozed, but when Celia began scrubbing his right arm with lye and a rough-bristled brush, he awoke, startled.
“I want Carlos baptized by September,” Celia said. “Father Araujo will do it gladly.”
Calabar frowned. “Baptized by the Jesuits? We are under Dutch protection now, Celia. Perhaps he should be baptized by them, in their own church. What do the doctors say?”
She shook her head. “He was strong today because he wants to impress his father. But he is weak, Domingos,” she said, her voice quavering. “He is weak and getting weaker. He has a blood affliction, and there is nothing they can do about it. Maybe he will outgrow it, but I want him baptized before…before…”
She could not finish her sentence, and Calabar did not press the matter. They were silent for a moment, then he leaned forward to let her scrub his back. He wanted to stay silent while she did her work, but de Gama’s foul accusations came back like an echo that had somehow lodged in his ears.
“I was called a traitor yesterday, Celia,” he said, letting water rush down the sides of his face. “Pedro Correia de Gama, a man I served with, looked me straight in the eye, and called me a traitor.”
“That is a lie.”
Calabar shook his head. “No, he’s right. I am a traitor. I stood before Matias de Albuquerque, his brother Duarte, and swore an oath to them both, and to the king. They repaid my loyalty with land and sugar mills. And I turned on them. I’ve burned their plantations, killed their soldiers, stolen their property. I’ve done all that. My father was Portuguese, my mother Tupi. To them, I am now just another mameluco dog.”
Celia dropped the brush in the water and cupped Calabar’s face in her warm, wet hands. “You are a child of Brazil, Domingos. You are a child of God. You did what you thought was best. And it hardly matters now anyway. We are, as you say, living under Dutch protection. No harm will come to us here.”
Calabar took her hands away from his face. “No, Celia. Things have changed.”
He told her about his meeting with Admiral Tromp, about the imminent departure of the Dutch, despite Tromp’s explicit order not to speak of it to anyone. Celia was his wife; he had to tell her. She asked questions he could not yet answer. She grew frustrated, stood up and paced back and forth. He climbed out of the tub, wrapped himself in a fresh bed sheet, and followed her. “If we are truly under the protection of the Dutch,” he continued, “then we must go all the way with them. We must go with them to this new colony. For when they leave, the Portuguese will seize Recife and everything in it. There will be no safe place for us then.”
Celia shook her head. “No, we cannot go. Carlos is too weak. He won’t survive the trip.”
“We must risk it.”
“No!” she yelped, louder than she wanted, and looked toward their door, fearing her children would be there. She went to it and closed it all the way. “I will not risk putting his life in danger.”
“If we stay, it surely will be in danger.”
“Then you must beg their forgiveness,” she said, coming to him and putting her hand on his chest. “Go to Bom Jesus and throw yourself on Matias’ mercy. Plead for your life, for your children’s lives.”
“Bah!” He said, pushing her away and turning toward the tub. “That is silly. They will shoot me on sight.”
“Then I will go. They will not dare shoot a woman.”
“You will not involve yourself in these matters, Celia,” he said rounding on her and giving her a stern look. “I am your husband. You will do as I say.”
A deep, bitter silence filled the room. In the distance, Calabar could hear laughter, some music, the bark of a dog. All the sounds of a town contented and free, at the moment at least, from danger and war. How wonderful it would be, he thought, if it could always be that way.
He heard her come toward him, careful steps, and felt her tender hand on his shoulder. “Yes, Domingos, you are my husband, and I have sworn to obey and to serve you.” She was speaking Portuguese now. “But I am also the mother of your children, and I have made many sacrifices for you. I have raised our children almost entirely on my own, while you were off fighting this admiral’s battle or that general’s war. I have cried myself to sleep at night wondering if you will ever walk through that door again, and I have given strength to the three filhos who sleep in the beds that you have provided. They deserve a mother and a father. You may yell at the top of your lungs, you may strike me if you wish. But I will not, God forgive me, put our son’s life at risk for the Dutch, now that they are leaving. They are abandoning us, and so we must do what we have to do to survive. Do not allow them to break up our family. Promise me, Domingos, that you will go to Bom Jesus and try to speak to de Albuquerque. Please…that is all I ask.”
Calabar had to admit that Carlos seemed too weak to move. And having no idea where the new colony was located, he could not, in good conscience, risk Carlos’ life with a potentially long and difficult journey. Was Celia right? Were the Dutch really worth the uncertainties and probable risks? They traded slaves just like the Portuguese and the Spanish, albeit not in the same vast numbers. Not yet, anyway. There were more than a few bigots among them, and they were even more brutal in some ways than the other European powers in Brazil when it came to trade and commerce. But try as he might to diminish their standing in his mind, he could not deny one important fact.
No Dutchman had ever called him a mameluco dog.
He softened, let the sheet fall, and hugged his wife close, feeling her warm body against his. Oh, Celia. May God strike me dead if I ever strike you.
“I promise to try to make it right, my love. I promise to try.”
Bom Jesus
The official name of the fort and surrounding village was Arraial do Bom Jesus, or Real do Bom Jesus, depending upon whom you talked to. The Village of Good Jesus…the Royal Good Jesus. But to those who lived in it, served and protected its walls, it was simply Bom Jesus, though some of its soldiers often referred to it in passing as o forte. It was the strongest Portuguese fortification in the Captaincy of Pernambuco, and Matias de Albuquerque was in charge.
“Your counsel for discretion is noted, Pedro,” Matias said, finishing a chunk of meat and washing it down with a gulp of red wine. “But I have already sent men to retake Pontal. I do not expect them to be long in recapturing it.” Matias chuckled, cleared his throat. “It’ll be like Bahia. The Dutch occupation will be short-lived. So I may need you there again soon. Do not get comfortable here, old friend.”
Pedro Álvares nodded. “Yes, my lord. I serve wherever you deem necessary. I only express caution because Admiral Tromp’s fleet remains at anchor in the harbor, just a short distance from here. I’m sure that your men will retake Pontal in time, but with respect, it will not be like Bahia. If Admiral Tromp decides to move even a portion of his fleet to support von Schoppe, there will be no combined Portuguese and Spanish armada to block and hopefully, by God’s grace, destroy him.”
At least not in the short term, Álvares knew, and perhaps not even in the long. The so-called Ring of Fire and the “up-timers” who had come through it, were changing the face of Europe, politically, spiritually, and socially. Reports were sketchy indeed, but the New World colonies could no longer afford to believe that such changes would not find their way across the vast, blue Atlantic. To Álvares, the presence of Tromp’s fleet was a probable harbinger of that trend. Clearly, judging by his cavalier attitude, Matias was either too stubborn—or too stupid—to perceive it.
Pedro tried a new tack. “With Tromp’s fleet in harbor at Recife, I’m also concerned that the Dutch will try to attack us in a more strategically important place.”
Matias looked up from his meal, furrowed his brow. “Like where? Olinda?”
For a time, Olinda had been under Dutch control. The small, strategically important town north of Recife occupied a soft spot in Matias’ heart, for that was where he had been born over fifty years ago. He always looked toward it with fierce, protective eyes.
“No, my lord. Here…o forte.”
Matias rolled with laughter. The man had a guttural, undisciplined cackle that was difficult to appreciate. He spent most of his time handling military matters in a deadly serious manner, and the Dutch had given him few opportunities to laugh. But on this occasion he laughed, and Álvares winced.
“Nonsense,” Matias said. “The Dutch have tried many times to breach us here, and they have failed each time. Bom Jesus is stronger now than it has ever been. The redoubts are well defended. Sending men to Pontal has not changed that.”
“Yes, my lord. You are correct. But I fear that if they do choose to attack again, they will have the guidance of Calabar, and that will improve their tactical planning.”
Matias’ mirth disappeared from his thin face. Álvares watched as anger seemed to collect in the man’s cheeks, making them swell and redden. He squeezed his fork as if he were going to plunge it into Álvares’ eye. “I want that traitor brought to me, in chains. Do you understand, Pedro? I order it. I want that son of a bitch captured and brought to me. I will hang his head and bowels from the battlements.”
Something about Matias’ deep, dark expression told Álvares that he was serious this time. He had given that order before, and then had promptly forgotten it when other, more important matters of state emerged. But this time, Matias’ gaze remained fixed on Álvares’ face.
“Yes, my lord,” Álvares said, letting the lie linger in the air. “I will see to it.”
Matias nodded, dabbed fatty juice from his mouth, and called for a servant. An African boy scampered into the room, groomed and nicely dressed in white linen, his dark face expressionless but gentle. He did not seem afraid of his position and place, Álvares observed, but more resigned, listless, as if it were all a bad dream. Had he been born in Pernambuco? It was hard to know. Slave ships arrived in Brazil on a regular basis, in Bahia primarily, and in Rio de Janeiro, as often as they used to arrive in Recife before the Dutch. Álvares watched as the boy cleaned up Matias’ scraps, plate, silverware, and wine glass, then as quickly as he had arrived, disappeared.
Matias rose from his chair. “So, what do your spies tell you of the admiral?”
Álvares cleared his throat. “Not as much as we would like, my lord. Whatever battle Tromp fought in Europe, his fleet was badly damaged. Some hulls are still lashed to the largest pier: spars broken, fire damage, and still requiring occasional pumping. They are all being repaired and refitted, but it will take time to get them seaworthy again.”
Matias grunted and shook his head. “I’m amazed he made it all the way across the Atlantic.”
“Maarten Tromp is a skilled seaman,” Álvares said. “The best they have, in my humble opinion.”
“Then you don’t think he and his fleet will remain here for long?”
Álvares shook his head. “I do not know, my lord.”
“I find it hard to believe that the Dutch would simply let their best admiral tuck tail and run all the way here, and leave it at that. Based on all reports I’ve heard, they need skilled military men in Europe now more than ever. Wouldn’t you agree?”
No. “Yes, my lord. That would be my assessment as well.”
“Very good.” Matias turned and headed to his study. He stopped and said, “Keep eyes on Recife. I want daily reports of all activity. In the meantime, I’ll pass the reports to de Oliveira, in Bahia.”
“Our former governor-general?”
“Who else? He will want to keep the Spanish informed. We may have an opportunity here, my friend, an opportunity to destroy Tromp in port as he licks his wounds.” He chuckled, then raised his hand and pointed a sharp finger right between Álvares’ eyes. “And bring me Calabar. I want him found. And if not him, then his family. Let’s see how quickly a snake rises from the grass if his lovely wife’s head is twisting in the wind.”
“Yes, sir.”
Álvares clenched his teeth as he watched Matias leave the room. It was one thing to demand the capture of Calabar; he had, after all, betrayed de Albuquerque’s trust. His reasons for doing so may have been noble, or it may have been an act of necessity, but he had still broken his oath. But to go after the man’s innocent wife, and his children…that was beyond reason. And it was well beyond the Christian faith that Matias supposedly professed.
Álvares shook his head. “No,” he whispered. “Not as long as I have something to say about it, my lord. You will never lay hands on Celia. Never.”