Grantville Gazette, Volume XII Read online

  * * *

  "Henriques, I am astonished," said Francisco de Sousa. He was the President of the Municipal Chamber of Belem. "I never would have expected a bachelor, in Belem no less, to have such an elegant dinner presentation."

  "Th-th-thank you, Cavaleiro Francisco. It is in large part my late m-m-mother's legacy."

  "I particularly like your centerpiece," his wife added.

  "It is a family . . . heirloom." The piece in question was a massive flowerpot.

  Henriques had hired extra servants for the occasion. They brought in one serving after another. First came a mingau porridge, followed by a farinha-sprinkled pirarucu, caught earlier that day. There were Brazil nuts, palm hearts, and mangoes, too. The meal ended with a sweet tapioca tortilha.

  "So what are you doing with those Indians?"

  Henriques had known this question would come, and had rehearsed his answer with Mauricio, to make sure he could deliver it smoothly.

  "There is a tree which produces a milky sap. They tap the tree, a bit as you would a pine tree to collect turpentine. The sap hardens into a substance which is waterproof, and can stretch and . . . bounce." Grrr, Henriques thought. I almost made it through my spiel I hate B's.

  "Bounce?"

  "Wait." He left, and returned with a rubber ball. He dropped it, and it returned to his waiting hand, much to their amazement.

  "So, there's a market for this?"

  "Somewhat. The rubber can be used to make hats and b-b-boots to protect you from the rain. And I understand that it can be applied in some way to ordinary cloth so that the fabric stays dry, but I don't how that's done.

  "I could produce and sell more, if only I had enough tappers."

  "Perhaps I can help you there. I can demand labor from the Indians at the aldeia of Cameta. We just need to agree on a price."

  * * *

  "What are you doing here, B-B-Benito?" Henriques had seen Benito Maciel Parente junior, followed by several of his buddies, saunter into the village clearing. Henriques kept his hand near the hilt of his facão.

  "Just paying a friendly visit to these Indian friends of yours, H-H-Henriques," Benito sniggered. He had scarred himself like a native warrior, but he was no friend to the Indians. Like his father and his brother, he was a slaver.

  "You've been making life difficult for folks, Henriques. I hear you're paying your tappers ten varas of cloth a month. It's making it tough to get Indians to do real work."

  "Ten varas isn't much, Benito." A vara was about thirty-three inches. The largesse had not entirely been of Henriques' choosing, although he was known to be sympathetic to the Indians; he had specific instructions about wages from Lisbon.

  "It is when the Indians are accustomed to working for four. Or three. Or two."

  "Or none, in your case."

  "Yes, well, it's my natural charisma. Anyway, dear Henriques, you want to watch you don't end up like Friar Cristovão." Cristovão had preached a sermon against settlers who abused the Indians, and he had been shot afterward.

  "I assure you, that I am extremely careful." Henriques' own men had in the meantime flanked Benito's party. Benito affected not to notice, but several of his men were shifting their eyes back and forth, trying to keep track of Henriques' allies.

  "So I thought I'd have a palaver with the big chief here. Mebbe he's got some enemies he'd like to ransom." If a Portuguese bought a prisoner condemned to ritual execution, he was entitled to the former captive's life; that is, he had acquired a slave. An "Indian of the cord."

  "You know the Tapajos don't ransom. How many times have you tried this?"

  "Aw, can't hurt to ask. And look at this bee-yoo-tiful cross I brought the chief, as a present. Hey chief, you want this? It would look real sweet right in the center of your village."

  The chief gave Henriques a questioning look. Henriques shook his head, fractionally.

  "Sorry, no," said the chief. "It is too beautiful for our poor village, it would make everything else look drab."

  Henriques thought, Good for you. The cross was a scam. If the cross fell, or was allowed to fall into disrepair, then it was evidence that the tribe opposed the Catholic Church, and war upon it would be just. Leading, of course, to the enslavement of the survivors. The Tapajos were a strong tribe, and the slavers so far had been leery of attacking them, but that could change.

  "Well, I can see I'm not welcome here today," said Benito. "I'll go make my own camp. But remember, Henriques, there's always tomorrow."

  * * *

  "Whump!" Henriques ducked, just in time, and took cover. He looked around, trying to spot the shooter. As he did so, one part of his mind wondered what had been shot at him. The sound hadn't been quite that of a bullet, or an arrow, or even a slingshot. More like a grenade exploding, although that made no sense at all.

  It happened again. "Whump!" Suddenly, he realized that the Indian tappers were completely ignoring the sound. With the exception of one, who was laughing his head off.

  Henriques rose cautiously. "What's making that sound?" Laughing Boy pointed upward at the fruits hanging from the rubber tree, and then down at the ground. It was thus that Henriques discovered just how the rubber tree spreads its seeds.

  His superiors in Lisbon would be very pleased. Henriques had received precise instructions to collect seeds, if he found them, to pack them in a very particular way, and to ship them by the fastest possible means. And they had sent him the packing materials, and a special elixir to put on the seeds to protect them.

  Henriques set the Indians to work collecting the seeds. He didn't dare wait for the monthly Pernambuco sugar boat run up the coast; he would have to hire a fishing boat to take his perishable cargo to Lisbon immediately.

  Belem do Para, Early 1634 (Rainy Season)

  Henriques fumbled with the door, and stepped into his home. He stumbled. Looking down, he saw that he had tripped over a cracked vase.

  It was no ordinary vase. It was Henriques' magnificent flower pot. When it wasn't gracing his dining room, it reposed in a case in his foyer. His housekeeper, apparently, had taken it out to clean it, dropped it, and then fled the house.

  Henriques blanched. His reaction had nothing to do with the cost of the piece, or even its sentimental value.

  Did she see the secret compartment? he wondered.

  He was hopeful that she hadn't. He studied it carefully. What he found wasn't good. The vase wasn't merely cracked; a piece had broken off and been reset. Lifting it off again, he could see into the compartment. Unless the woman were completely devoid of curiosity, she would have looked inside. And what she would have seen would have been far too revealing. A b'samin spice box. A small goblet. And, most damning of all, a miniature hanukkiya. The housekeeper was a caboclo, a half-Indian, and had certainly received enough religious instruction at an aldeia to know what that signified.

  It was the hanukkiya, a silver candelabra, which was missing. And that led to some fevered speculations. Had she taken it as evidence, to show to the authorities? If so, his hours were numbered.

  Henriques thrust his facão into his belt sheath, and barred the door. He loaded a musket, and set it close by.

  The soldiers would be sent to arrest him. There was no inquisitor in Belem, but an inspector would be sent from Lisbon. Henriques would be questioned, tortured. He would be called upon to repent his heresy, and he would refuse. Eventually they would classify him as a recalcitrant, and the Inquisition would recommend his execution. He would don the black sanbenito, tastefully decorated with pictures of flames and devils, and be paraded to the place of execution. He would be tied to the stake and—

  Wait a moment. Perhaps she was she planning to melt it down, knowing that he wouldn't dare report a theft?

  Of course, even if cupidity had triumphed over piety, he was in trouble. Unless she could convert it to an innocuous ingot herself, she would have to recruit an assistant, who might alert the Church. And even if she didn't arouse any suspicion, life wouldn't be the same.
She might blackmail him, or denounce him if he did something to displease her.

  As a secret Jew, Henriques had known that his life might come to this turning point. It was time to get moving.

  There was a knock at the door. Henriques put the musket on full cock. "Who's there?"

  "Mauricio."

  "Are you alone?"

  "Yes." His voice sounded puzzled, not nervous or fearful.

  "Bide a moment." Henriques uncocked the weapon, and set it down again. He unbarred the door, took a quick look at the street past Mauricio, and pulled his servant into the room.

  "What—"

  "Bar the door, again," Henriques said. "I am glad you returned in time." Mauricio had been off on an errand to Cameta.

  Mauricio fiddled with the door. "I hope you have a good explanation."

  Henriques started throwing provisions into a sack. Cassava bread. Beef jerky. Acai fruit. "I have to flee for my life. Actually, we both do."

  "What's wrong?" Mauricio asked. Henriques told him.

  Mauricio raised his eyebrows. "I certainly don't want to see you get burned as a heretic. But why exactly do I have to flee? Can't you just, oh, tie me up so I can swear that I wasn't complicit in your crimes?"

  "Sure. But they would probably put you to the torture anyway, you being my long-faithful servant and all.

  "Even if they didn't, the Church will seize my assets. And where would that put you?"

  Mauricio blanched. Under Portuguese law, an ex-slave could be re-enslaved by the creditors if his former master went into debt.

  "Is there a ship about to leave for Lisbon?" Mauricio asked. "We could board it, and outrun the bad news. Once in the city, we could lose ourselves in the crowd, perhaps sail someplace outside the reach of the Inquisition. France, perhaps."

  Henriques shook his head. "A sugar boat came through two weeks ago." They didn't have a regular schedule, but they came up the coast once a month, on average. There was no reason for another to appear within the next week.

  Henriques pried up a floor board, probed underneath with a stick. In Amazonia, you didn't search a dark opening with your hand. Not unless you were fond of snakes. He pulled out a pouch, which held money and jewels. He might need to bribe someone to make good his escape.

  "Could we reach Pernambuco? Or Palmares?" There was a Dutch enclave in Pernambuco. And, further south, in Palmares, there was a mocambo of runaway slaves.

  "We'd never make it by sea, both the wind and the current would be against us." That was, in fact, why Maranhão had been made a separate state, reporting directly to Lisbon, in 1621; it was too difficult to communicate with Salvador do Bahia in the south. Coasters did go as far south as São Luis, the capital of Maranhão, but taking one would just delay the inevitable. The authorities in Belem would send word to São Luis, and the latter was too small a place to hide for long.

  "And the overland route is completely unexplored. Nor would the map from the future aid us there."

  Mauricio had started collecting his own possessions. Mostly books. "Then why not sail north? There are English, and Dutch and French, in Guyana and the Caribbean. We might even get picked up enroute by a Dutch cruiser. "

  Henriques was sure he was forgetting something important. Ah, yes, a hammock. You didn't want to sleep on the ground in the rain forest. Not if you didn't like things crawling over your skin. Or burrowing into it. Hammocks were a native invention, which the Portuguese had adopted. And that reminded Henriques of a few other native items he needed. He gathered those up, too.

  "Henriques, are you going to answer me?"

  "Going north is what the garrison would expect us to do. And before you ask, they would be equally on guard against the possibility that friends would hide us, and smuggle us onto the next sugar boat to Lisbon."

  "So, what are we going to do? Did the people from the future teach your family how we might turn ourselves invisible?"

  "In a way. We will flee into the Amazon, lose ourselves among the trees of the vast rain forest. Go native. At least for a time."

  Mauricio wailed. "But I'll run out of reading matter!"

  * * *

  Captain Diogo Soares shook his head. His good friend, Henriques Pereira da Costa, a Judaizer! He could scarcely credit it. Perhaps it was a mistake, a dreadful mistake. Although Henriques' flight was certainly evidence of guilt.

  Diogo leaned back in his chair. Even an innocent man, if he thought he was to be the target of an accusation of heresy, might flee. Especially one with enemies, who might try to influence the inquisitors. Everyone knew that Henriques had enemies. The younger Benito Maciel Parente, for example.

  The captain's superiors thought that Henriques had boarded a southbound coaster. A fishing boat had been commandeered, and was heading down to São Luis already, to stop what boats it found, and also warn the authorities. The governor of Maranhão could also send a guarda costa back up the coast, and make sure that Henriques hadn't tried sailing north, to Guyana.

  Nonetheless, Diogo's sense of duty demanded that he consider other possibilities. Such as Henriques taking refuge with one of the Indian tribes. One of the Tapajos tribes, perhaps. It was fortunate for Henriques that Benito was off on a slaving expedition, as Benito would be delighted to bring Henriques out of the rain forest, dead or alive. Probably the former.

  But Diogo was obligated to cover that avenue of escape. Exercising appropriate discretion as to who he sent, of course. "Sergeant, call in all the soldiers who are on punishment detail."

  In due course, the sergeant returned, followed by six soldiers whose principal point of similarity was a hangdog expression.

  "Ah, yes, I recognize all of you. And remember your records. Which of you degredados is senior?"

  One of them slowly raised his hand. The others edged away from him.

  "You are Bernaldo, right? I remember you, now." Bernaldo winced. "You will be in command of this little patrol. You are hereby promoted to corporal in token of your good fortune. You are to go out into the Amazon and arrest Henriques Pereira da Costa, who has been accused of heresy."

  "But how will we find him, sir?"

  "Did your mother drop you on your head when you were an infant? You are looking for a lone white man in a canoe. Or perhaps in one of the Indian villages. Or wandering a trail. It shouldn't take long to locate him. Sail to Forte do Gurupa first, put them on alert." The fort , which guarded the south channel of the Amazon Delta, had been captured from the Dutch in 1623.

  "How long should we look for him?"

  "If you come back in less than six months, you better have him with you. Or you will be on your way to where Brazil and Maranhãos send their undesirables. Angola."

  They slowly filed out. "Good," said Diogo to the sergeant. "That solves more problems than one."

  * * *

  "I still think we should make a sail," Mauricio said. '"It's not easy for the two of us to row upstream. With a sail, we can take advantage of the trade wind." He let go of the paddle for a moment, opened and closed his hands a few times to limber them up, and took hold of the wood once again.

  "And you brought the cloth after all. You can cut some branches and vines for the mast and stays."

  Henriques shook his head. "A sail will be visible from a great distance. And the natives don't use sails."

  "Not before Europeans came. But a few do."

  "Not enough, just those who are in service. It would still draw attention. Even if the searchers didn't think it was our sail, they would approach the canoe, to ask if we had been seen, or perhaps to recruit more rowers. If they got close enough—" Henriques drew his finger across his neck.

  "Then why don't we just head upriver with the tide, and lie doggo in a cove the rest of the time. We need to conserve our strength."

  "It will be easier soon. We'll leave this channel, then cut across the varzea, the flooded forest."

  Henriques wiped his forehead. "We're lucky that we had to make our escape during the rainy season. If this had happen
ed a few months later, we would have been limited to the regular channels, they could catch us more easily.

  "And there's less of a current in the varzea, too."

  "Also, less in the way of anything to eat. The land animals have fled to high ground, and the fish are hiding in the deep water."

  "We have enough food to get us to a friendly village."

  "And another thing. It's easier to get lost in the varzea."

  "I never get lost."

  * * *

  "Okay, we're lost."

  * * *

  The good news was that Henriques and Mauricio had made it back to the main channel of the Amazon. Hard to get lost; you always knew which direction was upstream.

  The bad news was that they had emerged, closer than Henriques had planned, to the fort at Gurupa. They had to worry about being spotted, not just by Portuguese troops, but also by the Indians who traded with the fort. They might pass the word on. And they would be a lot harder to avoid.

  * * *

  "You, there!" shouted Corporal Bernaldo. He was addressing a lanky Indian, sitting in a small canoe, and holding a fishing rod. His companion seemed to be asleep. "Speak-ee Portuguese? Have you seen a white man? About so tall?" He stood up, and gestured, almost losing his balance. The Indian shook his head.

  "Ask him if he has any fish to sell?" one of his fellow soldiers prompted.

  "You have fish?"

  The Indian pulled up the line, showing an empty fishhook.

  "Ah, let's stop wasting time, we've got plenty of rowing to do." They continued upstream, and rowed out of sight.

  The apparent sleeper opened his eyes. "I thought they'd never leave," Mauricio said.

  Henriques smiled. "Well, you were a cool one."

  "Cool? I'd have shit in my pants . . . if you had let me wear my pants, that is."

  Henriques and Mauricio had hidden their European clothes, and Henriques had painted himself with black genipapo. The vegetable dye not only made him look like a native, at least from a distance, but also protected him from insects. Both wore loincloths, which observers would assume was a concession to European morality, but which would in fact conceal that they didn't follow the native custom of having their pubic hair plucked.