Chapter 5
Recife, Brazil
Calabar woke with the dawn, making sure that he had the time to bathe before arriving on Admiral Tromp’s flagship at the appointed time. He had considered dressing for war, wearing his sword and pistol, but thought it proper to shrug off those military symbols and wear his finest, instead: a slashed gold-and-brown doublet with paned sleeves, pressed breeches, a fresh pair of boots, and a new black broad-brimmed hat. They had been given to him by the wife of a Dutch merchant for his dedicated service to Recife, but he had never worn them until now. He’d had little enough opportunity.
Besides, dressing for war on this particular day might prompt speculation of a fearsome announcement, especially given the nature of the people who came aboard even as he did. They were merchants and planters mostly, who were accustomed to seeing Dutch soldiers, but might be either alarmed by the presence of an armed mameluco or, worse yet, might begin to wonder more critically at what his presence and dress portended. Calabar knew little more than they did about what would be revealed, but he knew enough not to risk becoming the cause of unnecessary excitement or concern on a day when the Dutch would surely be agitated enough by the coming announcement. Plus, wearing street clothes, as Celia called them, kept her from asking too many questions on his way out.
They assembled on the deck of the ship, twenty in total. Calabar knew most of them.
Admirals Tromp and Jol had been joined by Admiral Joost Bankert and his son Adriaen, who was beginning to show signs of becoming at least as great a seaman as his father. Calabar was disappointed that von Schoppe was not in attendance, but it was understandable; he was currently holding off a counterattack by Portuguese troops at Pontal. All reports indicated that the defense was going well, but von Schoppe obviously could not pull himself out of the fight to attend.
There were several other high-ranking Dutch officers, namely Major Schutte and Krzysztof Arciszewski, a Polish nobleman and engineer who had fled his homeland ahead of a murder accusation. Like Calabar, he was a bit of a duck out of water, an outsider among these Dutchmen, but one who had made a name and a place for himself on the Brazilian coast. Calabar had served under him once, and considered him a fine officer.
The government officials included Matthijs van Ceulen and Johann Gijsselingh, Councilmen Jehan De Bruyne, Philips Serooskereken, and Servatius Carpentier. Their presence was not merely predictable but essential…and yet, Calabar eyed them carefully. He had never heard anything negative about any of these men, and had no other logical reason to be distrustful, but on the other hand, he had never met a government official who did not have a hidden agenda or two. He moved to the other side of the deck, hoping that the distance would keep any of their bureaucratic nonsense—or possible double-dealing—from rubbing off on him.
Among the handful of merchants were a few clergy from the Dutch Reformed Church. Calabar made a mental note to talk to them after the meeting about his son’s baptism. Celia continued to insist that Carlos be baptized by the Jesuits, like their other children had been, but Calabar could not see how that was possible given their current situation. It was true that the Jesuits did not have any legal or political affiliation with the Portuguese; indeed, they were often at odds with them over the bandeirantes whom the plantation owners hired to rove inland and impress whole native tribes into slavery. However, getting Carlos to the church near Olinda, or getting a priest into Recife, would prove difficult, even if the Jesuits were willing.
The attendee who impressed Calabar the most was Moses Cohen Henriques Eanes, a Sephardic pirate who had served the Dutch well in their capture of the Spanish treasure fleet at the Bay of Matanzas some years back. Moses now worked primarily in concert with the Dutch in the Caribbean, but his ties with the small Jewish community in Olinda were well known. A physically vital man with an expressive face, Moses was a person that Calabar had one day hoped to meet, but not here, not today. Because his presence at this meeting was a sign of how likely it was that Tromp’s plan for relocating the colony would in fact take place, and soon.
Confronted with Celia’s strong and understandable desire to remain in Recife had led Calabar to hope, perhaps beyond hope, that when he arrived, Tromp would call it all off, declare all was well with the world, and pop open a keg of rum to celebrate the good tidings. Such was not the case. Moses’ presence meant only one thing: the Dutch were serious enough about leaving Recife that they had called him in for counsel and possibly direct assistance.
Admiral Tromp emerged from the door leading back toward the captain’s cabin, strolled into the gathering, cleared his throat, and put up his hand to still the conversation. When it stopped, he said, “I want to thank you all for coming. I was hoping that this meeting could be held in the stern cabin, but given the heat of the day that is already upon us, I think here in the open breeze will be more comfortable. We have much to discuss.”
Calabar pulled at his collar to let a breath of ocean-scented air soothe his hot neck. It was going to be a warm day indeed.
Tromp continued. “Some of you already know what this meeting is about. Some of you have no idea. Let me bring us to the point quickly. The Dutch fleet, due to the treachery of the French and British, was nearly destroyed as we sailed, as allies, against a new Spanish Armada with designs on invading the republic. Such an act of treachery has put us in an extremely dangerous position in Europe. And with the political disruptions stemming from the arrival of these so-called Americans who claim to be from the future, our efforts to predict what might occur next becomes so problematic that it is essentially pointless to include such considerations as we address our changed situation here in the New World. So, our only reasonable course of action is to proceed from what we know, rather than conjecture.”
He pointed to his fleet in the harbor. “In our retreat from Dunkirk, I only managed to withdraw with six hulls. We came across four more afterwards that were in serviceable shape. Losing all but ten ships of our European fleet was not merely a devastating blow to our nation, but has completely changed the long-term prospects for our continuing occupation of Brazil. Bluntly, the Netherlands can no longer support or supply reinforcements for our position here.”
Calabar saw the trepidation and fear on the faces of those around him.
Tromp sighed deeply. “Therefore, by the end of May, we will be abandoning Recife and moving to Saint Eustatius in the Leeward Islands of the Lesser Antilles. Its colony, Oranjestad, will be our new base of operations here in the New World.”
A collective gasp went up among those who were just hearing this for the first time, primarily the merchants and the clergy. Calabar eyed them carefully, keeping his mouth shut, waiting and watching. He was happy to see that the officers were taking the news better than the civilians, but then they would. A soldier is mobile, going where he is needed. The others had families and roots and businesses and religious interests that would, inevitably, be disrupted significantly by such a move. Calabar thought about Carlos, and then Celia’s exhortation…
Promise me, Domingos, that you will go to Bom Jesus and try…
A merchant’s voice rose above the clamor. “With respect, Admiral Tromp, if our position is as tenuous as you say, then what was the purpose of attacking Pontal? Which, by the way, men are still fighting and dying to hold.”
It was a valid point, Calabar had to admit, although he felt he already knew why.
“The Portuguese and their Spanish masters are well aware of our defeat at Dunkirk,” Tromp countered, “but they do not know yet that Recife has been cut off. Pontal is a feint, in strength, but one absolutely necessary to keep them believing that we are maintaining a strong presence here…at least until we put our plans for withdrawal into motion. If we do not, Matias de Albuquerque will learn of our situation, and it will embolden him. He will strike hard from land, the Spanish will surround the harbor, and we will lose everything. We cannot afford that; the Company will not tolerate that. And thus, our only course of action is to leave in secret. And soon.”
“By God’s graces, Admiral, how do you propose to leave?” A clergyman asked, folding his arms with a look of indignation.
“By ship, of course,” said Jol, moving forward to give Tromp support. “Do you think we would force you to carry your crosses and bibles up the coast like a porter?”
Tromp put up his hand to kill the argument before it started. “Father, Admiral Jol is right. The colony will leave by ship. We have now roughly forty-eight hulls in harbor, including my ten, Jol’s and Bankert’s warships, yachts and paraguas, sloops, fluyts, and several fishing boats. We will leave in strength, and we must be at sea by late May or early June so that you all”—he pointed to the merchants and farmers—“are settled in time to plant a new crop. We cannot wait much longer anyway, for if our departure slips into July or August, we run the risk of hurricanes. Our ships must be in a safe anchorage by the end of June. At the very latest.”
“The Spanish are all over the Antilles, Admiral,” said a merchant. “What keeps them from attacking us as we go?”
“Nothing,” Tromp admitted, “but they are not typically active in numbers that would concern us. Their fleet in Saint Martin’s, which is the closest colony to Eustatius, is small and not in a position to cause us trouble. Their other, far more sizable fleets, remain close to their home ports in Havana and Santo Domingo, tasked with protecting general commerce and the safety of La Flota. If we are in place by June, we will be safe on St. Eustatia.”
The merchant scoffed. “I see no difference between there and here.”
“Oh, there is a big difference,” said Arciszewski. His Dutch was reasonably good, but he stumbled over his words every once in a while. “In Eustatia, we fear only the Spanish by sea. The island is ours total. But here, we fear both the Spanish by sea, the Portuguese by land. It is a far more difficult place to hold.”
“But a much more fertile, and financially advantageous, one as well,” another merchant pointed out. “And that is why the Company chose it, why we have sacrificed so much to keep it, despite all of the losses we have suffered. Are we going to abandon Recife so quickly, so readily?”
“You do not understand what has happened in Europe, my friend,” Councilman Jehan de Bruyne said. “The Republic cannot protect us here. It is the only way we may remain in the New World. We must shift the location of our resources in order to protect them better. If we don’t, we do run the risk of total annihilation.”
One of the farmers stepped forward. “The sugarcane that we process each year in Brazil is almost enough to sustain Recife by itself.”
“Only if the sugar continues to flow to Europe,” said Tromp, his voice rising in agitation. “Our ports there are closed to us, blockaded. And once word of our incapacitation reaches the Spanish, they will encircle this grand harbor and stop all commerce. And no amount of sugar waiting unshipped on our wharves will feed the bellies of your starving children. And there is no incentive for the Portuguese or the Spanish to just let us walk out, once they know that they are in a position of strength. Why not surround us and destroy us and be done with it—with the Company—forever? No. The matter is decided. We must leave Recife by end of May…with or without you.”
All fell silent as that last stinging point brought an end to the argument. Calabar looked carefully around as the reality of the situation begin to sink in. There was a helplessness, a near terror, on their faces.
“Admiral Tromp,” said Major Schutte, “a practical matter: how do you propose to keep the Portuguese from learning the truth? There are several living here in Recife still, as well as on Antonio Vaz where our position is quite tenuous. I’m certain that many of them are still sympathetic to their king.”
Tromp pointed to Calabar. “That is why I have asked Domingos and Moses to attend.” He nodded at them. “You two will be in charge of planning our exodus, especially from the island and from Olinda. The Jewish residents in Olinda will be quite helpful in the new colony; they have skills we lack, and commercial contacts with other communities in the Caribbean.”
Another merchant pointedly avoided looking at Calabar or Moses. “And why must we rely upon…outsiders to overseeing our relocation?”
Tromp nodded slowly. “Moses has long experience navigating the waters from here to our new home undetected. That and his excellent logistical expertise makes him an invaluable organizer and guide. Domingos understands the Portuguese better than any of us. Plus, he has ties with the native tribes. We will need their help as well to make this work.”
“Why? Are we taking every Tupi we can push into a hull?” a merchant asked.
There were a few derisive snickers from the merchants and farmers from that remark. Calabar kept quiet, although judging from the expression on Tromp’s face, he knew they would not like the Admiral’s answer.
“No,” Tromp said. “But the Tupi will have to cooperate with us nonetheless if we are to get our people out of here safely. And if they won’t help us actively, then you, Domingos, will have to ensure that they at least stay out of the way, and refrain from alerting the Spanish or causing trouble themselves.”
So, Calabar was to connive with the Dutch to use the native populations to beat a hasty, but safe, retreat…and then abandon them once again to the depredations of the Portuguese. He managed not to roll his eyes. Perhaps Celia was right that the Dutch were no better than anyone else; once again, their self-interests took precedence over any darker-skinned folk who happened to be inconvenient to their plans.
But as Calabar fumed, he could not deny what he saw in Tromp’s eyes: hurt and bitter regret. The admiral hated what he had just said, had just ordered, but even he could not do anything to change it. The situation was thus, and he answered to a higher authority as well.
“With all due respect, Domingos,” one of the merchants said, this one turning fully to look Calabar straight in the face. “Why should we trust you? You were, after all, in service to the Portuguese. How can we put our lives into your hands?”
“I have every faith in Domingos Fernandes Calabar, sir,” Tromp said. “I…I trust him with my life. He has the respect and admiration of all the officers here. He has earned that respect with deeds. His service to the Company has been invaluable.”
But Tromp’s protestations earned only a moment of respectful silence before almost half of the gathering began muttering oblique objections, then voicing related accusations and concerns. The conversation fragmented quickly, different groups veering off into different topics that bore upon their own self interests. The merchants wanted to know how their goods would be packed and transferred safely. The clergy fretted over what kind of congregation they could expect to find in the new colony. The farmers argued over the kinds of crops that would fare well in a more northerly, island climate. The officers debated how best to load and move the colony and the special burdens it would place upon ensuring sufficient supplies and logistics.
Tromp and Jol moved from discussion to discussion, urging the groups to remain calm while also trying to maintain some control on where each conversation was leading. Their success was limited, at best. Even when Moses sidled up to Calabar, suggesting that they meet later to begin formulating a plan of exodus, Calabar could not fully focus. Instead, he could not take his attention away from the sad spectacle unfolding before him.
All of these important, fair-skinned men, crisping in the sun, trying to figure out how to protect their interests and unable to remain focused on finding the best strategy to facilitate their departure. Instead, they kept stepping all over themselves with one petty argument after another. And here Calabar stood, a piece of dark clay among white pillars: a half-Portuguese, half-Tupi beast. Just a mameluco dog, even to them, even though they didn’t say it aloud…
Mother of God, am I the only one who sees the way forward?
Calabar closed his eyes. “Attack Bom Jesus!”
He blurted out the words before he knew what he was saying. He said it again, and this time, the conversation stopped. The men all turned to him in silence.
“What did you say, friend?” Admiral Jol asked, his peg leg clicking against the sturdy deck.
“Attack Bom Jesus. Attack the Portuguese at their strength.”
A farmer huffed. “We have tried that before, Calabar. It did not work.”
“That’s because I was not involved in that effort.” He couldn’t believe how bold he was being, but who among them would try to talk him down? If these people hoped to escape successfully, they would listen to him now. “Since then, I’ve helped you defeat them, but simple ambushes in the forest do not threaten the strategic balance. Pontal was the right move, but too far away. We can attack a dozen Pontals, and it will do no good.
“The key is Bom Jesus, Matias’ stronghold. It remains the center of Portuguese power here in Pernambuco. If it falls, or if we can threaten it enough to force the Portuguese to pull back their military assets from Antonio Vaz, Olinda, and some of their other forts, you will have the breathing room to move your people out of harm’s way. Keep the Portuguese occupied with a real battle, and you will give yourself a chance.”
It took a few moments for his words to sink in, but once they did, the midship deck was soon noisy with renewed conversation. This time, however, everyone was speaking about the quality of his plan. Suddenly, he was the center of their attention, their petty squabbling silenced and replaced with focused consideration. They pelted him with questions, and Calabar tried answering as best he could, but he hadn’t given the attack much thought himself. And perhaps he had spoken out of turn, put himself into a situation that he was ill-equipped to handle. The largest force he had ever led into battle was two hundred fifty, and that had been for the Portuguese.
But now here he was, proposing a major assault against them. And how would he coordinate such an attack? He had to think of something. They were all counting on him now.
Celia’s words came back to him. Promise me, Domingos, that you will go to Bom Jesus and try…
I promise, Celia. I will go to Bom Jesus, and I will not just try…I will kill Matias de Albuquerque myself.