Chapter 2
Fort Nazare, Brazil
Pedro Álvares watched Dutch sailors prepare to disembark. He watched them through a small window from the safety of Fort Nazare, as de Gama fumed behind him. There were no guns firing at the ships. What purpose would it serve now but to waste ammunition? Von Schoppe and the Dutch had taken Pontal, and no amount of gunfire from a small fort would make any difference.
“I have sent word to Matias,” de Gama said, fiddling with papers at his desk in an obvious attempt to mask his rage.
“You do not trust me?” Álvares turned from the window.
De Gama paused, set his harsh gaze on Álvares’ face. “I’m a soldier, Pedro, not a politician. My men and my current military position matter most, and time is precious. If you cared about time, you would already be in the saddle, riding hard up the coast.”
Álvares nodded but could not help letting a smirk cross his lips. “Do not worry, de Gama. The fate of your men and of Pontal will be articulated to Bom Jesus. I shall ride by dusk, and I will give them a full assessment of the situation. Something your courier cannot do.”
De Gama grew quiet, then said slowly, deliberately, “Do you think Matias will send us men?”
“I’m sure he will.” But he would be foolish to do so. Álvares did not bother to speak his true thoughts. De Gama was a decent field commander, but he was prone to angry outbursts. Telling him the truth of the tenuous strategic situation in which the Portuguese found themselves in Brazil would be foolhardy, and serve no purpose other than to force de Gama’s hand. If de Gama believed that no reinforcements were forthcoming, he might very well abandon the fort again and try to retake Pontal on his own.
And next time, Captain, I will not save you from Calabar.
De Gama rose from his desk and stood beside Álvares. He peered out the window toward the Dutch ships, said, “He should send enough men to kill that mameluco dog, at least.”
Álvares winced. Those words stung him more than he thought they would. “He stayed his hand, Pedro. He let you live.”
De Gama nodded. “That he did, and I wonder why.”
Álvares acted as if he were insulted. “I begged him not to shoot, if you recall.”
“And why should he care what you, Matias’ man, would say? That should have made him pull the trigger straight away.”
“But he didn’t. So perhaps he isn’t such a traitor after all, yes?”
De Gama cleared his throat and spit through the window, as if he were trying to strike the mast on Lichthart’s flagship. He wiped his mouth, and said, “He’s a traitor. Any man who fights beside me one day, and who then pledges his allegiance to the enemy the next, is a traitor. And as I stand here breathing, I pledge to God that if Matias doesn’t put Calabar into the ground someday…I will.”
Álvares opened his mouth to continue arguing the point, but closed it promptly. Any further discussion on the matter would draw too much suspicion to himself, and de Gama was not a man he wanted as an enemy. Besides, the more important matter before them now was why the Dutch had suddenly taken an interest in Pontal. What strategic significance did a small fishing village hold for the mighty West India Company? And why send so many to take it, when a force half its size would have sufficed, even taking into account the reinforcements of de Gama and his men from Fort Nazare? All of this had something to do with Admiral Tromp and his arrival in Recife. There was a connection, and Pedro Álvares had his suspicions. But he was not about to share them with de Gama. But with Matias?
No, not yet. Or maybe never…
De Gama returned to his desk and fiddled with more papers. “Be ready to ride by dusk. Tell Matias of our situation, and implore him to send more men. I want Pontal back under my command in a fortnight.”
Álvares nodded, but turned back to the window. One week, two weeks, a month. How long it took to recapture Pontal no longer mattered. The inexplicable Dutch assault implied that something far more important than the fate of a small Portuguese coastal town was at stake, and Álvares would make sure he learned of it before it was too late.
He picked up the spyglass that sat nearby on the window sill and trained it at the Dutch flagship. On the deck stood a dark-skinned man, disheveled, his shoulders limp, speaking to Admiral Lichthart. Even though he had no way of knowing what they were saying, he knew the context of their conversation.
“Take him home, Admiral,” Álvares whispered so that de Gama could not hear, “and let Calabar see his family again…before everything changes.”
* * *
Hours later, with Calabar’s assistance, three Dutch ships navigated quietly past Fort Nazare in darkness and proceeded up the coast to Recife. Calabar stood on the deck of Vice Admiral Lichthart’s flagship for the duration of the journey, despite calls from the admiral to go below and rest. He needed it, no doubt, but the trip was short and besides, he couldn’t sleep. Try as he might, he could not erase de Gama’s words from his mind, nor the face of his wife and children.
At the break of first light, the rocky reef of Recife came into view, and Calabar found the strength to smile. It was a beautiful sight, almost as lovely as Porto Calvo, his place of birth, but far more important, more so than nearly any other point along the Brazilian coast.
The ships slipped into the harbor through the narrow passage between the reefs, and Calabar marveled at the number of tiny forts lining the approach. Just four years ago, the entirety of the area had been under Portuguese control. Now, it was in Dutch hands: precariously so, in the long term, but firm enough right now. The forts were an impressive indication of their resolve to ensure that the strategic hub of those possessions, Recife, would stay that way. Calabar put his hand over his eyes to shield them from the sudden brightness of the rising sun.
The buildings of Recife caught that light, standing out from the green and blue that surrounded them. The walled town sat like a fist at the tip of a long island that snaked into the harbor from roughly six miles up the coast near Olinda. Three rivers, the Afogadas, the Capiberibe, and the Beberibe spilled their brackish water into that harbor, its broad waters a natural barrier that separated—and protected—Recife from the mainland visible just beyond. A long bridge connected Recife to the much larger island of Antonio Vaz, which was also protected by forts. It had to be, for the Portuguese were still close, in numbers large enough to be a constant threat.
The three ships moved their way up and through the anchorage of Admiral Tromp’s fleet, which had arrived four months prior. Combined with the ships that had already been in port, Calabar had not seen so much naval power in Recife since the days when the Portuguese held the harbor. But apparently that massing of force had not been entirely a matter of choice, as many of the Dutch ships had limped in with splintered masts, breached hulls, and fire damage nearly beyond repair. The fortunes of nations were apparently changing almost as rapidly as the tides themselves, or so it was whispered in the streets of Recife. A strange group of people had arrived in Europe, seemingly from nowhere, announced by a bright flash of fire. Their ideas and influence had begun changing the balance of power that prevailed there, and perhaps in the wider world beyond. At the very least, these so-called Americans had, directly or indirectly, triggered a chain of events that prompted Spain to send a fleet to engage the Dutch in a place called Ostend.
That was all Calabar knew. When he tried to learn more, he was told “just do your duty.” So that was exactly what he had done. But Tromp’s ships were still impressive, even as damaged as they were. Repairs were being made, though slowly, and as Admiral Lichthart’s ship came to rest alongside a sturdy pier that jutted out from Recife’s dockyard, Calabar wondered how long it would take for the Dutch fleet to be back at full strength. Not much longer, hopefully.
He hoped too that, by some miracle, Celia and their children would be waiting for him. But alas, the pier held only Dutch sailors who helped moor the ship firmly into place with strong hemp lines. Calabar gathered himself and carefully made his way down a rope ladder. He hopped off, turned and nearly ran into Cornelis Jol.
“My apologies, Houtebeen, I mean, Admiral,” Calabar said, bowing politely. “I did not see you there.”
Calabar immediately regretted using the Dutch word for Jol’s wooden leg, which was affixed tightly above his missing calf and knee. The Portuguese called him Pé de Pau, but the last man who used that term in Jol’s presence lost an eye. Calabar winced and reflexively covered his face as if he were about to sneeze. Jol laughed heartily, his fresh but graying whiskers twinkling in the morning light. The man’s breath carried its customary scent of rum and half-stale bread. Calabar held his breath until Jol stopped laughing.
“‘Admiral’?” Peg Leg Jol said, ignoring the Dutch nickname. He screwed up his pinched face as if he had eaten a lemon. “My superiors may call me that if they wish, but you know better, my friend.”
Calabar smiled. Indeed, Jol was more of a pirate, a privateer, than he was an admiral. But the rank was genuine, bestowed upon him for great deeds performed in the service of the West India Company. He was much revered among the Dutch colonists in Recife, despite the wooden stump that forced him to lurch through the streets like some terribly grizzled monster.
“I did not expect you to be here,” Calabar said.
“Nor did we necessarily expect you to return so quickly from Pontal,” Peg Leg replied, “but we hoped you might. And how did we fare in that engagement?”
Calabar told him.
“Very good. Now, come,” he said, taking Calabar by the shoulders and slowly turning around. “Let’s be off. There is much to discuss.”
“Sir,” Calabar said, resisting being pulled up the pier, “I returned so that I might see my family.”
“And you will, you will, I promise. I will take you there myself. But now, we have much to do. Your presence is required.”
“By whom?”
“Admiral Tromp.”
Calabar stopped and kept his expression firm as he looked straight into Peg Leg’s amiable face. “Sir, if he plans on giving me another assignment so quickly, I must humbly—”
“Heavens, no! He wants to speak to you about a far more serious matter.”
Calabar paused. “What matter?”
Peg Leg grabbed Calabar’s arm and pulled him over to a pile of crates. He looked about, ensuring no one was near. He spoke low, his friendly eyes now turning dark and serious.
“The Dutch are leaving Recife.”
* * *
Maarten Tromp was young, not much older than Calabar, but he commanded great respect in the Dutch navy. He had only recently been promoted to admiral, but was held in high regard by the local Company representatives, despite the fact that he had come into port with a crippled fleet.
He was waiting for Jol and Calabar in the kitchen of the governor’s home, helping himself to some boiled cabbage, sweetened pawpaw juice, and bits of dried pirarucu fish. Calabar didn’t realize how hungry he was until he smelled the fine breakfast.
“Please, sit,” Tromp said. “Have whatever you wish.”
Calabar was messy, smelly, and was not prepared for dining, but he accepted Tromp’s offer and took a seat. Peg Leg stood behind him.
“Pontal went well?” Tromp asked.
Calabar nodded. “Yes, sir. We took the town.”
“I have not received the official report from Admiral Lichthart, but that is good to hear.” Then his expression turned serious. “It may very well be the last town we ever take in Brazil.”
Calabar accepted a piece of bread and helped himself to a jug of juice. He swallowed the bread in one gulp. “I don’t understand, sir.”
Tromp stopped eating, shot a glance at Peg Leg who nodded approval. “You saw what was left of my fleet when I arrived?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you have seen the damage that we are still repairing,” Tromp said, finishing his meal and patting the sides of his mouth. He placed his napkin on his plate, pushed away from the table, and stood up. “It is time for us, for the Dutch, to leave Recife.”
Tromp walked across the room and gazed out the window. Had they been in the dining room, he would have enjoyed a wide panoramic view of the harbor. Here, he looked out over a humble but tidy herb garden. “Europe is changing, Domingos. Europe has already changed in many ways and, in consequence, we can no longer maintain our position here. We must leave before the Portuguese, and the Spanish for that matter, learn of our weakened position.”
“They have not yet heard of the destruction of your fleet at Dunkirk?”
“No. It is not unusual that news from the Old World is delayed by half a year or more.”
Jol nodded. “Particularly down here.”
Calabar nodded back. “So. Where are we going?”
Tromp turned and looked straight into Calabar’s eyes. “I cannot tell you that right now, Domingos.” He crossed the room again and sat back down. “I’ve called you here because I need your help. You are respected and admired among the colonists,” Tromp began. “You hold special status among the mestizos and mamelucos in particular, although many of them are of Portuguese descent. I suspect you are one of the reasons they have supported our position here in Brazil, so far. And if our departure is to occur smoothly and on time, we will need their continued support. Or, at least, their silence.”
“I understand, sir. And you cannot tell me where we are going?”
“No, not today. But I want you to attend a meeting on my ship, four days hence.” He leaned in close. “Assuming that I can count on your aid?”
Calabar had completed a few assignments for Tromp since the admiral’s arrival, but they did not know each other that well. They were certainly not close, not like he was with Peg Leg and von Schoppe. But Calabar and the young admiral had gotten along well whenever they met, and Tromp had never given him any reason to be concerned with his service or loyalty to the Company, or to the Dutch in general. Thus, there could only be one reason why Tromp was being so persistent in securing a clear, unambiguous declaration of support.
To serve them, I had to become a traitor. A mameluco dog. And now they wonder: will I turn again?
“Admiral Tromp,” Calabar said, pushing away from the table and standing. “I serve the Dutch and have given my oath to them. I will not break that oath. I will help you in any way that I can. In fact, I would ask that I and my family be allowed to leave Brazil as well when the time comes.”
Tromp smiled at that request, and Peg Leg slapped Calabar’s shoulder. “That’s good news, my friend. You are most welcome to come along.”
“You are indeed, Domingos,” Tromp said, his quiet voice and somber nod a strangely reassuring contrast to Peg Leg’s good humor. “But I do want to warn you: the type of service that you have provided us here in Brazil will likely stop in the new colony. At least for a while. In addition, there are already Dutch colonists there who own the choice land, and the Dutch relocating from Recife will have claim to most of the rest of it. You might not have the opportunity to own land, Domingos, and thus I cannot guarantee what kind of life you and your family will find there.”
Calabar had owned property once before, under the Portuguese. Not that long ago, in fact. It had been a small cane plantation that would have been dwarfed to invisibility if set beside the vast fazendas of the wealthiest Portuguese fidalgos. But oh, how he missed it sometimes. It had started as a small trapiche mill, one powered by horse and cattle, and with three wooden rollers used to extract the juices. Over time, the Portuguese had honored him with a larger Engenho plantation that allowed the cane to be ground and processed by water power instead of livestock, thus making the process more efficient and lucrative.
To this day, if he closed his eyes and surrendered to the memories, he could almost smell the cane juice boiling in the cauldrons as the impurities were cooked out. The molasses was then placed into clay sugar-loaf molds and sent to Europe. Europe craved sugar, and Calabar had been part of that trade for the Portuguese. Once upon a time.
He shook the recollections from his mind. “I serve the Dutch now, Admiral. I will serve them here and wherever it is we are going.”
Tromp nodded and stood again. He offered his hand. “Very well. Then I will impress upon you the importance of keeping this conversation quiet, until noon, four days from now, when you arrive on my ship. All will be discussed and revealed then. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.” As Calabar made to depart with Jol, Tromp gave him the remaining food and pawpaw juice. After accepting it graciously, Calabar stepped out of the governor’s house, feeling both elation and fear.