Counternarratives (2 page)

One night, at camp, as the Colonel paced a brook in the distance,
several of his men whispered among themselves the unspeakable word: desertion. The plan became moot at dawn, however, when yet another
band of Indians launched an assault. Arrows and stones swarmed their armor like
locusts. The Colonel's men had no choice; how quickly we forget the repellent
aspects of personality in moments of crisis, which permit the illusion of unity
against more dangerous foes. The clergy had one method for dealing with the Indians,
soldiers another. The Colonel, no Jesuit, urged his men to pursue the last of the
savages until they were incapable of staging even the memory of a surprise.

There were therefore no natives who could be pressed into serving as
guides. As far as anyone could tell, they were well beyond the region of Portuguese
settlements. As a result, the Colonel was unsure about the land on which he now
stood. Sheer, green walls of trees that smothered the sunlight rose before them. An
interminable carnival of beasts and birds crisscrossed the canopies above, while
insects spawned in the pens of Satan swarmed the ground beneath their feet. The
regiment had lost the curves of the river, but an impromptu compass devised by one
of the men seemed as if it might guide them toward their goal; even the Colonel knew
they could and should avoid the
sertão
, the graveyard of mortals, and trek
back southeast along the river's line to reach Penedo, which he was sure was a
staging ground for other units. This would ensure their participation in the
expulsion of the heathen Netherlanders.

After a day of marching, they appeared to have returned to their initial
spot. They were obviously lost. The men sat in frustration, enraging the Colonel. He
ordered his adjutant, Pereira, to devise a new compass as quickly as possible.
Wasn't there a man among them with Tupi or Xororó or other indigenous blood or
experience who knew this region? A mulatto scout, dos Santos, meanwhile set out with
a dowser, marking trees with twigs and hacks to guide his return. After a while, he
heard an unusual noise. An infinity of unusual noises surrounded them, but he
recognized this one: a berimbau. Having grown up on a sugar plantation, he knew
instantly what he was dealing with. Africans. Were they allied with the Dutch? Were
they escaped slaves living under Indian protection?

Dos Santos spotted a clearing, just on the other side of the creek at
the bottom of the low hill on which he stood. Lying prone in the brush, he could see
beyond a fringe of mahogany trees a tiny settlement. Further observation showed that
though the community was no larger than a cane field, it hummed with considerable
industry. Small buildings, in the thatched style, formed a circle; several handfuls
of men, women and children moved back and forth among tethered animals at its
center. It was, he realized soon enough, a
quilombo
. Perhaps the residents,
whom he figured to be independent in their allegiance, might lead his regiment back
towards the river, or even provide a few warriors for the coming battle. He tried to
recall the phrases he had learned from his mother: she had secretly practiced the
Mina rites.

Dos Santos followed his markers back to where the Colonel and the
regiment had begun to bivouac. He reported to his commander what he had seen;
immediately the men, though thirsty and exhausted, were ordered to decamp. When the
scout inquired about the Colonel's plans, he was thrown to the soil. The regiment beat such a quick path using his guideposts
that it took dos Santos several minutes to catch up.

As a child, the Colonel had witnessed the Africans' failed attempt
to raze his father's plantation, and more than once he had been told that their
plans had included slaughtering every Londônia or Figueiras they found. So he tended
to regard all blacks not in bondage or under the protection of the cloth as
renegades. In any case, a
mocambo
might provide an ideal haven for any
enemies of the Crown. Did the Dutch, who were heathens anyways, even sanction
slavery? Who could be sure? At the hill, the Colonel told his men to slow their
advance and follow the direction of the lilting music. He paused, all the men
paused. He ordered them to draw their weapons. Dos Santos noted, this time aloud,
there was no sign or seal of Dutch influence. This was evidently a free colony, he
was willing to bear a message of conciliation, if so ordered. The Colonel told the
scout not to mock him again; not only canestalks should fear the scythe.

As they crouched in the bushes, a phalanx of a half-dozen males, ranging
from adolescents to adults, emerged from the trees. Maroons, they wore simple
shifts; except for the one at the very head of the line, carrying what appeared to
be a sacramental spear, they were unarmed. At their rear strode a tall, gray-haired
African, of influential bearing. He carried a large shield made of braided and
colored palms, a cross within a circle woven into its face, and a carved mahogany
pike. A bright ochre sash fell across his bare, scarred but still muscled chest, at
the center of which hung a small, leather amulet.

The train of black men began to mount the hill. As they approached the
summit, Dos Santos, the regiment's assigned emissary, rose reflexively from his
haunches to approach the group. But the Colonel also sprang from his lee into the
clearing. The group of free men halted, the shield-bearing leader extending his hand
palm upwards, fingers spread, in a gesture of friendship. One of the other maroons
announced in broken Portuguese that they were not subjects of the crown, and that
they sought no hostilities. Perhaps they assumed the mulatto scout and the commander
with his nappy mane, though clad in military gear, certainly would not harm
them.

What the Colonel saw, however, was Cesarão.
Th
e big man, though he did not recognize his enemy, did realize
immediately the danger he was facing. The Colonel yelled out a forward charge, in
successive lines, and his men began dropping their adversaries by sword and pike as
rapidly as they could reach them. The man the Colonel sought fled back down the hill
into the compound; his cries, in a language unintelligible even to dos Santos, sent
women, children and animals scattering in all directions. The Portuguese company
hurried down to the perimeter of the settlement, where the first wave met poisoned
arrows, knives, a long, spear-lined pit, which opened suddenly, like a lamprey's
mouth. A few men toppled over each other into death: Souza, Madeira. The others
dropped whomever they could.

The Colonel, from a position in behind a tree, reloaded his gun, felling
one of the rebels. As his men subdued most of their opponents, he hunted down that
Cesarão. The big man, running to grab his sword, had stumbled into another pit, this
one filled with waste, on the periphery of the settlement, and was clambering like a
crab to get out of it. The Colonel had one goal: the chief rebel's head. With one
swing of his sword, he got it.

When the regiment was done, flames shrieked up from what had been the
settlement like a monstrous blue bird-of-paradise. The Colonel ordered all the enemy
who had not escaped or been slain taken prisoner. There must be at least some among
them who would serve as guides back to the São Francisco, and since they had
operated under Cesarão's control, they ought, he was convinced, to be returned to
his father's estate. Cesarão's head, along with the infernal fetish, hunkered in its
bloody, fecal glaze in a burlap sack.

The number of captives was few. None was willing, without coercion, to
lead the tormentors out of the jungle. Finally, an older woman, sufficiently broken
by the Colonel himself, conducted them to the initial outpost from which they had
started. It was, unaccountably, no more than a two-day journey.

The Colonel, Viana

A
nother small
regiment, under the command of Viana, had stopped there, awaiting further
orders; they had been sent as backup to the Colonel, since he and his men had
not been heard from in months.

Viana inquired about the Africans. Who were they, were they agents of
the Dutch, how had they come to be so badly maimed? The Colonel demanded to see his
papers. Had Fonte da Ré sent him? An argument ensued. When Viana refused to listen
any longer to the “obviously feverish and belligerent
cafuzo
,” the Colonel
ordered his men to seize Viana's weapons, commandeer his boats, which were anchored
at the dock, and place the few remaining rebels on them. He had Viana and his
regiment bound and lashed to trees, though they were, ostensibly, the King's
soldiers. Viana promised that the Colonel would never see beyond the gates of a
military prison once he got free; the Colonel's first impulse was to raise his
sword; the festering burlap sack could surely hold another head, but dos Santos
implored him to think better of it. The Portuguese sentries manning the dock and
post opportunely vanished.

The boats plied the river back to its mouth. Every hundred
kilometers one of the captives endeavored to leap into freedom of the currents, such
that by the time the Colonel reached his father's plantation, only one young male,
whom he had tethered to dos Santos, and two young females remained. José Inocêncio,
now walking with the aid of a cane, and his elegant wife, Dona Maria Francisca,
received their son and his men in the sitting room of their house. The son presented
the recaptured slaves; his bewildered father was unsure that he could take such easy
title to any of them, who in any case were too young and wild to incorporate
immediately into his docile stock. He would have to consult his lawyer. Still, he
had all three taken out to the slave quarters. The young male black, the elder man
noted, looked vaguely familiar. At this point, the son presented to him the burlap
sack, which by now was swarming and putrid. After a brief and horrifying
examination, Londônia ordered it removed and cast out into the voracious river; very
likely, like a vial bearing a message of incalculable importance, it rapidly made
its way to the open sea.

Once he was fed, outfitted and properly horsed, which devoured nearly a
month, the Colonel brought his men back to Salvador. As soon as he reported to his
garrison, he was seized; a warrant had been issued for his arrest, for violations of
the military code. Viana, already back in the capital city, had reported him.
Th
e Colonel was remanded to the military prison, to await
adjudication of his case. He asked to meet with Fonte da Ré, but this request was
denied on the grounds of practicality. His commander had been killed in battle at
Arraial do Cabo, near the port of Nazaré, only a few days earlier.

The Tribunal

T
h
ere was no precedent in the records
of the military courts of Brazil, a councilor with connections to the colonial
administrator and hired by José Inocêncio argued, for such a state of affairs,
about which officers and prominent townspeople were buzzing. In the case of
Lázaro Inocêncio Londônia de Figueiras, there could be no charge of
insubordination. Viana held no titular rank above him; the commander only took
the steps he did in order to complete his mission without delay; he had remained
faithful to the original orders, as best he interpreted them, of his commanding
officer; he had suffered an insult to his face, his dignity—there were
witnesses. On the first and final counts, the argument appeared to have
standing. On the second and third, questions lingered. Fonte da Ré, now
deceased, was unable to attest either way. The men in Londônia's regiment had
suddenly grown silent, and might have to be ordered to testify by the tribunal.
Still, tying up a fellow officer and his soldiers, when they posed no threat of
sedition, desertion or sabotage, constituted an extraordinary scenario. The
councilor would have to consult with more learned authorities, and write to
Lisbon for more guidance. During this interim, Londônia would remain in military
custody.

Not only Londônia, but his father and relatives in high places found his
circumstances intolerable. He was a Figueiras, strings must be pulled. But there
were, oddly enough, no Figueirases among the upper hierarchy of the army. But there
were many Figueirases who had the ear of the Church, the Crown's representatives,
among the sugar-growing and ranching aristocracy not only of Bahia, but also of
Parahyba, and Rio de Janeiro. But making an exception on behalf of this Londônia
without the appearance of even a
pro forma
hearing might possibly harm
morale among the officer corps during this critical period, as the Crown was engaged
in a difficult war against the Dutch. But who was this Viana anyways, the son of
unknown bumpkins from the south? But those same Vianas were landowners as well, had
contacts. But Figueiras Henriques, his brother-in-law, was already on a frigate
bound for Iberia, and would request an audience in Philip's court in Madrid, if need
be. But there were witnesses. But, a war hero? But honor, duty,
esprit de
corps
?

While the councilor consulted with knowledgeable parties, Londônia
remained impounded. His connections, being what they were, insured that he would not
suffer undue privations. He had to keep busy, so he had prisoners write letters to
his parents, his elder brother, his nieces and nephews, members of his regiment. He
organized athletic contests, drills. He assisted in the disciplining of slaves. His
sister was permitted to visit him regularly, former classmates and fellow trainees
sent tributes. Figueiras Henriques, on his return, met with members of the military
command. The Bishop of Bahia received another influential relative. Some time
passed, and the brouhaha waned, while the sequestration, though inconvenient, grew
almost pleasant.

A closed tribunal of officers was finally seated at the urging of
several key parties. A military lawyer from a less-distinguished family opened with
his argument on behalf of the army, which is to say, Viana. He seemed, it struck all
present, to be whispering into his chest, as if trying to perform an act of
ventriloquism. One member of the tribunal had to be awakened twice.
Th
en Londônia's councilor, deputized to appear before a
military panel, delivered his defense. Such an elegant wig, such golden perorations,
such learned command of the royal law. There was much nodding and noting of the
councilor's key points. So it went. Viana's lawyer presented his rebuttal. It was
noted that his Portuguese evidently carried fewer Latin eloquences than was common
in continental courts of law; where on earth had he received his training? The
tribunal broke for the Sabbath. When it resumed, the councilor intended to call
Viana as his witness.