Chapter 1
Outside Pontal, Brazil
The guns in Fort Nazare fell silent, and although their deafening salute to the invading Dutch had sent a few to a briny grave, enough ships had gotten through to threaten the Portuguese town of Pontal. Now, the Dutch fleet lay at anchor at Cape Agostinho as soldiers, under Captain Sigismond von Schoppe, spilled out onto the shore and marshaled up into ranks five deep. Musket troops mostly, flintlock pistols, a few wheellocks, and even a few pike.
Pike seemed silly in such close quarters, under the blasting heat and glaring sun of the Brazilian coastline. But Domingos Fernandes Calabar, who stood beside a much-delighted von Schoppe, knew old habits were hard to break. The fair-skinned Dutch had done well for themselves along the Brazilian coast since they had arrived in force a few years ago, but no amount of pike would take this fishing town. It would take skill, speed, guile, and a clear understanding of the forest that lay further inland. Calabar knew this. He wondered if his friend did as well.
“I can always tell when you are troubled, Domingos,” von Schoppe said, looking through his spyglass to monitor the first wave of men he had sent forward. Muskets sounded in the distance.
The battle for Pontal was on.
“How so?” Calabar asked.
Von Schoppe chuckled. “You become…quiet.”
“Eu nao estou—” he paused, realizing that he had lapsed back into Portuguese. He sighed. Old habits, indeed. “I am not troubled, Captain,” he said again, this time in Dutch, “just concerned.”
“Speak your mind.”
Calabar cleared his throat. “Fort Nazare’s guns have stopped, yes?”
Von Schoppe nodded.
“To me, this means that its commander has decided to abandon the position and lead his men out to defend Pontal. He will bring them through the jungle to strengthen its rear defenses.”
Von Schoppe scoffed. “That is no concern to us. De Gama has but a handful of men. No more than a hundred.”
“Much less than that, I’d suppose,” said Calabar. “But he does not need that many men, Captain. No matter the number, they are all Portuguese veterans. They understand defensive warfare. All de Gama needs is to get into Pontal and hold us off long enough for Albuquerque and that son of a bitch Bagnuoli to bring reinforcements. If he does that, we will not be in a position to defend against them, no matter who controls the town.”
Von Schoppe lowered his spyglass and shook his head. “I’ve got nothing but fishermen in front of me, and you are asking me to split my force.”
“Just give me two hundred men.” Calabar motioned to the left. “One hundred. Luiz and I will work them around behind Pontal and lay in wait for de Gama.”
Von Schoppe eyed Calabar carefully. The German-born commander’s weathered face was worn, dirty. If the situation weren’t so dire, Calabar might have smiled. Life in Brazil had not been easy for the Dutch. It had not been easy for any of the European countries which had tried to stake out their claims upon the lush potential of Brazil. The Dutch, the Spanish, the Portuguese, even the French and English had all made attempts at controlling portions of it. And now the Dutch and Portuguese were in a death struggle for the very heart of Brazil, the captaincy of Pernambuco. The Dutch held the coastline; the Portuguese, much of the mainland. Where one would gain advantage, the other would fall back, and vice-versa. On and on it went, and it seemed to Calabar that the ceaseless struggle had written itself directly on to von Schoppe’s face. The man looked twenty years older than he was. So did Calabar for that matter. But what was bad for the body was sometimes good for the soul. Calabar had promised himself that he would never regret the decisions that he had made in this long struggle.
Von Schoppe leaned in close. “Are you so sure that de Gama will do what you say?”
Calabar nodded. “Yes, I am. I know him, Captain. I…served with him.”
Von Schoppe stared for a long moment, then smiled. “You’re lucky that I like you so much, Domingos. You’re lucky I’m so fond of your wife.”
From any other man, that might have been seen as a threat, but not from von Schoppe. He was a good family friend. He had even been present at the recent baptisms of Calabar’s two oldest children.
“We are both lucky in that regard, Captain.”
Von Schoppe chuckled and waved him off. “Take your hundred. Whomever you wish.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Calabar turned and walked to the soldiers gathering on the shore.
Most of them were Dutch, but not as many as he would have expected. Among them were Tabajara tribesmen and a smattering of Caetés. Some of the tribes of Brazil had aligned themselves with the Dutch, having been repeatedly and thoroughly ravished by the Portuguese. But alliances were easily bought and sold in Brazil: whoever made the most appealing promises won the most support.
Many of the soldiers Calabar wanted for his ambush were the tribesmen. They were far more skilled in subterfuge and guerilla warfare, but they were carrying pikes, which he did not need. So he would have to mix his force; some natives, some Dutch. And how would that go, he wondered, as he walked among the ranks, lightly tapping the shoulders of the men he wanted. Will they follow me in battle? He gave them their orders, and they fell out of their ranks and waited near the tree line.
He was about to shout out Luiz’s name when his young adjutant-in-training appeared at his side.
Luiz Goncalves had very dark skin. The seventeen-year-old was believed to be the product of a Portuguese bandeirante and an African slave. But he had grown up an orphan among the Jesuits and knew many of the native languages far better than Calabar ever would. He knew the lay of the land pretty well also.
“O Calabar, sir,” Luiz said in his surprisingly deep voice. He made to salute as the Dutch did, but Calabar waved him off.
“Not necessary, Luiz,” Calabar said. “Tell me: what have you discovered?”
Luiz pointed toward the tree line where the soldiers awaited them. “The way through there is typical, sir. A dirt road that ends near the river. And then it’s footpaths from there on. Very narrow going. A migration of ants will cause us trouble in one place, and there are howlers everywhere.”
Indeed, Calabar could hear those loud monkeys from where he stood. He nodded. “A hundred men aren’t many, in truth, and being spread out so much, we will not be able to bring fire to bear as nicely as I had hoped.”
“Did he give you all the men you wanted?” Luiz asked.
Calabar shrugged. “Enough, but now we have to put them to good use.” He looked up into the bright sky. He wiped his brow. Humid, hot, and sticky. Not much of a breeze off the sea. A scent of rain in the air. That would not help their shooting. “Let’s begin,” he said, turning Luiz around and urging him forward. “I want you to stay with the Tabajara, yes? You convey my plan to them. Understand?”
Luiz nodded. “Yes, sir, I will do so. But…what is your plan, sir?”
“To be where we are not expected, and to attack when they are not watchful, Luiz.” Calabar smiled and slapped the boy on the shoulder. “In short, to defeat them. As usual.”
“I suspect,” Luiz said, frowning slightly, “that the men will want details.”
Calabar could not keep from smiling. “Yes. They are trying, that way.”
* * *
Calabar huddled quietly behind broad leaves and thick vines, his wheellock pistol loaded and ready in his hand. Twenty soldiers waited nearby for his signal. Their muskets were leveled toward the path that led roughly two miles northeast into the small, uneven streets at the rear of Pontal. Von Schoppe’s frontal assault was going well, but from this distance, Calabar could not tell if the town had been taken yet. Probably not. Von Schoppe was showing enormous patience, giving Calabar time to spring his trap. Finally in position, and enduring a clinging humidity and clouds of biting flies, he waited for Pedro Correia de Gama to come.
Calabar had set himself up in the vanguard of the ambush, instructing the rest of the men to spread out so as to be able to bear along several routes that their enemies might use. Invisible only a few yards within the jungle, they were gathered in clumps of about a dozen. It was logical to assume that de Gama would use the widest of the pathways to facilitate the speed and ease with which he could insert a force into Pontal, but Calabar knew that the Portuguese captain was too smart for that. If his ploy was expected, then he would likely stick to a smaller trail, accepting a slight decrease in speed for the near-certainty of dodging an ambush. And de Gama would certainly know the next best route to take; he had been in the country for over ten years, and knew the lay of the land. Hardly surprising: the Portuguese had first arrived in Brazil almost one hundred and ten years earlier, more than a century before the Dutch began attempting to wrest it away from them.
How ironic, Calabar thought, that one could easily consider the Dutch to be “foreign invaders,” as if the Portuguese were the native peoples of Brazil. Certainly some considered them that. Calabar had pondered the contending arguments a good deal over the past couple of years, but right now, waiting behind damp foliage, trying desperately to keep his powder dry, he was not merely unsure of the answer; he was unsure that it mattered. He had never known a Brazil without the Portuguese. He had also never known a Brazil without slavery and the bigotry it spawned. He shook his head to drive away the questions, smacked a fly from his neck, and reaffixed his broad-brimmed hat against the first droplets of rain.
Rain was a blessing and a curse when attempting an ambush in the jungle. Rain would help keep the howler monkeys from giving away their position to the Portuguese. But it would also hamper gunfire. Perhaps, Calabar had reasoned, the pikes weren’t wholly ridiculous weapons after all, but they were too long, a weapon for the vast fields of Europe where the role of neatly formed blocks of soldiers was to repel cavalry charges, push the enemy from the field, or into places where gunfire could do its worst. That was not the warfare for Brazil. Here, small units, cover, and surprise worked best. It had taken a long time for the Dutch—primarily a seafaring power—to understand that. Calabar was doing what he could to help. And now here he was, leading Dutch boys into battle, some of them almost young enough to have been sons of his.
So, taking the helpful advice of Luiz, he had instructed all the pikemen to saw their pikes in half and then wield them like spears. Von Schoppe would not like having his weapons ruined, but Calabar was willing to risk the wrath of his friend. Such anger would not last long anyway, assuming they won.
A young Dutch soldier stumbled through the underbrush and came up at his side. “Calabar,” he said in a labored whisper. “They are coming.”
Indeed they were. The whinny of a horse and the slosh of its hooves through the mud confirmed it. Calabar drew his pistol from beneath his coat and listened. Soon, he could hear the rumble of steel-banded wheels coming up one of the smaller paths. More horses trotting closer, and then the shuffle of men’s legs. He craned his neck to see above the dripping leaves.
Through the hazy air, he spotted a mass of twenty or twenty-five men, moving in a defensive ring around a cannon being pulled by a single horse. It was a smaller piece than what would have graced the walls of Fort Nazare, but large enough to have three men behind it, pushing against its wheels as the horse pulled. An old Spanish saker probably, a gun brought in to provide close-range firepower if the walls of the fort had been breached. The rest of the Portuguese guard carried muskets.
“When I give the signal,” Calabar said, mouthing the words more than speaking them, “we rise up together and shoot together. Understand?”
Everyone nodded.
“Then we rush the gun and take it before they can respond. Wait for my signal.”
They waited. Calabar rose to his knees, pistol aimed, hand in the air.
The cannon train hastened forward. Now, he could see the small caisson being pulled from behind, more of a handcart than anything, hastily assembled to make the short journey to Pontal. He waited until the rumble of the cannon’s wheels were clear, until he could clearly see faces of the Portuguese soldiers in front; their eyes were shifting back and forth beneath tarnished morion helms, searching nervously for trouble. They will get plenty soon enough, Calabar said to himself, as he raised his hand higher, ready to signal.
A shot rang out on his left before he dropped his hand.
A young Dutch boy fell back from the recoil of his own musket. Perhaps he had gotten scared, or the trigger was slick with water or sweat. Whatever the reason, the premature round nicked the cannon barrel, and the Portuguese guards turned and fired into the underbrush.
In a moment, everyone was firing. Calabar hit the ground and covered his head. Goddamn! He spit the curse into the soil. The Jesuit priest who had baptized him as a child would have beaten him black for such blasphemy, but he didn’t care. The ambush was ruined.
Calabar rose up, aimed and fired at the closest Portuguese soldier. Despite the rain, the pistol barked, and the bullet tore through the man’s shoulder, knocking him back against the horse’s flank as it was riddled with shots. The horse smashed through its twisted tackle, taking the man down with it and stopping the procession in its tracks. While the other Portuguese soldiers desperately reloaded their muskets, Calabar gave the second, final signal.
“Now!”
Men sprang from their hiding places, rushing the piece, some yelling and holding their muskets like spears, others trying to take aim as they skipped forward. The Portuguese held firm, huddling around the saker and trying to fend off the attackers. Calabar raised his pistol and drove it straight and hard against the jaw of a young man guarding the cannon. Bits of chipped tooth, blood, and spit flew from the boy’s mouth as another Portuguese stepped into the gap. Calabar took a swing as the new defender raised his pistol. As Calabar’s own pistol batted it away a split second before it went off, he pulled his sword and slashed out with it. The hasty cut parted the man’s gruff cheek with a gush of crimson as he jumped aside and was lost in the writhing mass of men.
An unseen object found Calabar’s ribs and drove the wind from his chest. He fell back a pace, steadied himself, and slashed again, this time at another Portuguese soldier who was trying to spike the gun. The blade found the man’s fingers, tore two from his hand, left him screaming, and the iron spike in the mud.
Then it was over. Those Portuguese lucky enough to have survived were fleeing back from whence they came. A couple of Dutch soldiers tried to follow them.
Calabar called after them. “Stop! We do not chase stragglers. Let them go!” The boys seemed upset at that. Calabar did not know if their annoyance was due to their blood being up or from the fact that it was he who was ordering them to stop. But that did not matter right now.
“Who’s the rotzak that fired before my signal?” he asked, helping a soldier up.
“Jansen, sir,” one called, pointing to a dead Dutch boy lying face down at the side of the path.
Jansen’s was not the only corpse. Calabar counted another six dead, mixed among the Portuguese. Na morte nos todos somos o mesmo, he thought as he holstered his pistol and sheathed his sword. In death, we are all the same.
“The next one of you who disobeys my order, I’ll—”
Echoes of musket fire and shouting men interrupted his speech. He recognized a voice in the chaos.
Luiz!
Calabar abandoned the gun, his men following him through the thick wood. The rain had tapered off, but the howlers were back, announcing their approach. But they could no longer allow that to delay them: the battle was on, and Luiz was in trouble.
Calabar ran for nearly a quarter mile, the stink of wet, decayed leaves and the fresh scent of musket fire in his nose. The distant but constant sound of battle from Pontal rumbled in his ears. Calabar could feel his heart pounding against his ribcage as his legs began to weaken. But he mustered the strength to keep going, jumping a fallen tree and blowing through a patch of thorny vines. They broke free of the brush in a clearing near the back of the town, and all Calabar could see was a mass of men fighting: intermittent discharges of pistols, broken pikes clashing, swords striking, blood spilling.
At the center of the carnage, Luiz and de Gama were locked in combat, swords flashing, faces taut and sweaty. The boy tried to repel the Portuguese captain’s relentless attack, but was faring poorly. His shirt was torn, his arms cut.
As Calabar raced across the clearing, a drift of musket smoke obscured the two momentarily. He charged harder, straining to see—and knocked over a Portuguese soldier as he cleared the dispersing cloud. He avoided another, almost stumbling but keeping his feet until, howling, he threw himself into de Gama’s back. His hat flew off as the full impact of his weight thudded into Luiz’s attacker.
The Portuguese captain grunted as the blow sent him reeling, his sword knocked from his hand. Calabar righted himself quickly and tried to find Luiz in the spreading smoke, but the young man wasn’t nearby. In that moment, de Gama regained his feet and was on him quickly, punching his jaw and pushing him back. Calabar tried drawing his sword, but the belt had shifted, and he could not find the hilt. Instead, he drew his knife, lashed out at de Gama, but missed.
De Gama came at him again, but this time, Calabar was ready, catching the captain’s wrist and turning it. De Gama screamed and struck out with his left boot, catching Calabar in the thigh and rolling him over. Now, the Portuguese captain had his own knife ready and thrust it toward Calabar’s stomach. Calabar twisted just in time but felt the blade tear his wet shirt. He balled his fist and struck de Gama’s chin, sending the man reeling back just enough to allow Calabar to roll the other way, coming up short against the body of a dead soldier.
Calabar pulled his pistol, and then remembered it was not loaded. He cursed and tossed it away, then found another, primed and ready, in the hand of the dead man alongside him. He thanked God quickly, pulled the pistol free, and lurched up onto his knees. As de Gama came at him, Calabar raised the pistol and pushed it into the captain’s throat.
De Gama halted abruptly, the knife in his hand suspended in mid-thrust.
“It’s over, de Gama,” Calabar said. “You are beaten.”
De Gama’s bloody, puffy lip quivered as sweat rolled down his face. He screwed his dark eyes up and flicked a tongue between uneven teeth. He grimaced as if a shot of pain had pierced his eye, but his voice was clear and unwavering.
“Traitor!”
Calabar wavered at the word. He held the gun firm against de Gama’s throat, but the joy of victory was gone. Only that word now hung in his mind, that simple yet damning word. He had heard it before, more than once, but somehow, at this particular moment, it held new meaning, had extra power that it had never had before. Looking into de Gama’s eyes, a man he had fought alongside and whose life he had saved, Calabar said, “I am no traitor.” His voice was quieter than he had wanted.
De Gama nodded. “You are. Come, traitor,” he said, slowly turning to offer Calabar his back. “Shoot me as I flee. Helpless. Show the world what you are.”
It was the right thing to do. Here in the jungles of Brazil, the tactically sound thing to do was to pull the trigger. This was a tough, dirty war, and if he let de Gama go, he was likely to face the man on some later battlefield, his old comrade fully willing and ready to put a bullet in Calabar’s chest. His mind told him to pull the trigger, and yet the words kept echoing in his ears: Show the world what you are…traitor.
“Calabar!”
Calabar turned toward the new, vaguely familiar voice. Pedro Álvares was standing amid the scattered bodies of both sides, wet and dirty, a spent musket in his hand. He lowered the weapon and waved peaceably. “Please, don’t kill him.”
Calabar knew Álvares mostly through reputation. He had served in the past as a liaison for both Duarte de Albuquerque and his brother Matias when, three years ago, they had sent an offer to the Dutch that could have meant peace, or at least a truce. The offer, of course, had not been accepted. But here on the outskirts of Pontal, Álvares was a long way from Matias and his inland stronghold, Bom Jesus.
“Serving swine now, eh, Pedro?” Calabar said, pushing the barrel of his pistol deeper into the nape of de Gama’s neck.
“I serve Duarte, Matias, and my king,” Álvares said. “As you once did.”
“Shoot, you mameluco dog!” de Gama blurted, and began walking away.
Pedro fell silent, and Calabar stared deeply into his eyes. Yes, shooting de Gama would be best. But…
He lowered the pistol. “Go,” he muttered quickly, “before I change my mind.”
His former comrade turned, and the anger on his face was gone, replaced with surprise. Calabar let the pistol fall from his hand as he watched Álvares lead the wounded de Gama away. They disappeared into the tree line. De Gama looked back again, but Calabar did not meet his gaze. Instead, he turned to greet Luiz who approached holding a cut on his arm.
“Why did you let them go?” Luiz asked.
Calabar ripped a piece of fabric from his shirt and wrapped it around the young man’s wound. He tied it tightly in place. I’m no mameluco dog. I’m no traitor, he thought, but he said, “It doesn’t matter now. Listen.”
They listened. Through the humid air, they could hear Dutch soldiers cheering.
Pontal was theirs.
* * *
In the cool shade of a tree, Calabar watched von Schoppe approach. His friend carried a bucket and a ladle. Calabar smiled weakly. No Portuguese captain had ever condescended to bring him water.
Von Schoppe laid the bucket down and scooped out a ladle full. The water spilled over the sides, and Calabar nodded and took it gently with his hands. He drank deeply, then said, “Congratulations, Captain.”
“I should be thanking you, Domingos,” von Schoppe said, dropping the ladle back into the bucket. “You were right again. And now we have time to reinforce before Matias arrives.”
“Do you think he will?”
Von Schoppe nodded. “He’s a dog with a bone, a most persistent creature. He’ll come. It’ll do no good, but he’ll come.” After ladling out a drink for himself, he stood. “Rest up, and then come find me. I need you to reconnoiter up toward the fort. De Gama is still out there, and—”
“Captain,” Calabar said, standing slowly. “I wonder if I could beg your leave and return to Recife with Admiral Lichthart.”
Von Schoppe wrinkled his brow. “Are you injured?”
“No, Captain. I’m just… Well, it has been several weeks since I’ve seen my wife, my children.”
Concern spread across von Schoppe’s face. “How is Carlos?”
Calabar shook his head. “I don’t know. I haven’t heard anything of late. I take that as a good sign, but I need to see my children. I will leave Luiz here with you. His wound looks worse than it really is. He’s capable. He can assist in anything you require.”
“He’s a good scout, yes, but he’s not as good a soldier as you. Few men are, even though you’ve been at it for less than half a year.” When Calabar’s only response was a one-shouldered shrug, von Schoppe sighed. “Very well. When ready, report to the admiral. He’ll be leaving under cover of night…if he can find a way past the cape in one piece.”