Magdeburg
March 1635
Lieutenant Byron Chieske dropped into the visitor's chair in Captain Bill Reilly's office with a grunt. Reilly looked up from his paperwork with his eyebrows raised in a mild question. "The day that bad?"
"No, just long. We had to bring Annie Grimmigwald in on assault charges."
"Old Annie? How come?" Bill was surprised. Annie was normally a quiet woman, content to turn enough tricks to get her evening gin at some dive of a tavern before she stumbled out into the night to find a nook to sleep in.
The two officers had been working with the Magdeburg city watch for over two months now. The nature of that work had made many of the city's streetwalkers known to them. The city council ignored them as long as the women were quiet and kept to certain parts of town. Bill and Byron didn't pay any more attention to them than they had to. There were usually more serious issues to deal with.
"She kicked the slats out of another prostitute. She kept screaming that the other woman had stolen her man."
"Who's got magistrate's duty tomorrow?"
"Otto Gericke, I think."
"Good." Bill was relieved. "Maybe he won't be too hard on her."
"Actually, I'm going to try and get the charges dropped. The other prostitute had a knife, so it might have been a self defense situation."
"Mm, yeah, I could buy that. Annie's usually not mean. Do what you can." Bill saw Byron nod. "Where's your partner?"
"Left him in our office filling out the report. I'll sure be glad when someone develops reliable carbon paper. This having to fill out triplicate reports by hand is a real pain. I keep hearing about typewriters in German, but haven't seen one yet." Bill shook his head at Byron's sidelong glance. They were available, but the city council kept ignoring requests to acquire one for their budding police department. "Speaking of Gotthilf, he reminded me again to see if you've gotten an answer yet from Grantville about the possibility of stolen silverware."
Bill started rummaging through the papers on his desk. "Um, maybe. I thought I did." The rummaging ended with a piece of paper pulled in triumph from the middle of a stack. "Yeah, here it is." He passed it to Byron.
"Okay… looks like someone actually dug back into the records for this. Several reports of vacant houses being broken into a week or so after the Ring fell… kitchens ransacked… pans and glassware left behind, but knives, tableware and plastic stuff taken, including Melmac dishes in some cases." Byron scanned through to the end of the report. "Thefts stopped after a couple of weeks. No known suspects." He looked up with a grimace. "And, of course, since the owners of the homes were left up-time, there's no one who can give any kind of descriptions. Not much to go on."
"You still think that guy you saw selling the stainless silverware was selling hot stuff?"
"Well, he was sure nervous about something when he caught me looking at him. He didn't even know I was a cop, but he was sure spooked." Byron changed the subject. "Any word yet on the guys the kids told us about? The two from Hannover?"
"No, and since their descriptions match half the men in the northlands, I wouldn't hold my breath if I were you." Bill remembered everything surrounding the Vogler case rather well-everyone who had anything to do with it did. He looked down at his desk. "Well, now that you know what you know, go find this peddler. Otherwise, I'm going to trade jobs with you and let you deal with this stuff."
Byron shot to his feet. "On my way." And that quickly he was out of the office.
The threat of the paperwork worked every time, Bill smiled to himself. Then he looked at his desk, and groaned. He had to get an assistant soon. He wondered if he could somehow snaffle Odogar out from under Frank Jackson. It would be worth the grief the general would give him just to get someone who could run this office.
Gotthilf set the last copy of the report on top of the stack and wiped the pen nib to clean it. Byron came in the door to their office just as he set the pen aside. The up-timer waved a paper in the air.
"Finally got the answers from Grantville about the silverware questions we asked."
Gotthilf perked up. He'd wanted to grab the street vendor when Byron saw him selling the tableware, but Byron had insisted on waiting for information from Grantville. "So now we go get him?" He bounced to his feet and checked for his pistol.
"So now we go question him, anyway," Byron laughed. "Whether we get him or not depends on his answers. Come on. I want to check on Willi, anyway."
Gotthilf grabbed his jacket, and in moments they were on the street in front of the building that served as the city watch headquarters. As usual, Byron's long legs set the pace, forcing the shorter Gotthilf almost to a trot to keep up. "Slow down, you great lunk," he gasped after they traveled a block.
"Sorry." Byron slowed his steps to more of a stroll, which allowed Gotthilf to walk at a more normal speed. "I keep forgetting just how sawed off you are." A fleeting grin crossed his craggy face.
"All the better to cut you off at the kneecaps," Gotthilf growled before he smiled in return.
The two men had been partners now for a few weeks. It was an unlikely match at first glance; the lanky up-timer and the short but strongly built down-timer. The relationship had been a bit testy at first; or at least it had on his side, Gotthilf acknowledged. The city watch of Magdeburg was a proud organization, and they had not taken well to the thought that others could tell them how to fulfill their duties. There had been friction at times between the watch and the military police and NCIS staff at the naval yards. Gotthilf was honest enough to admit that there was as much fault on the side of the watch as there was on the navy's, maybe more. But that hadn't made it any easier to deal with the two up-timer officers when Herr Gericke brought them in to help shape the city watch into something more of a police department in the up-time mold.
Gotthilf still wasn't sure why Herr Gericke had selected him to serve as the partner of the tall and laconic up-timer. The first few days had been pretty strained, particularly after Gotthilf made the mistake of speaking disparagingly about a young beggar child. He found out in a moment that the good-natured lieutenant was capable of anger and passion. But the case they had stumbled on as a result of meeting that child had cemented them together as partners. The young down-timer was wholly converted to Byron's point of view, and in turn began to act as leaven to the whole watch. By this point, only the most hidebound of the watch were continuing to resist the new methods.
"I have a question," Gotthilf announced as they turned a corner. Byron looked at him with one of his quizzical expressions-he had a whole arsenal of them, ranging from innocent to sly to out-and-out sarcastic disbelief. This one was just a simple raised eyebrows indication to go ahead. "Why do you call it silverware, when there is no silver in or on it?"
Byron grinned. "More sloppy up-time speaking. It used to be that tableware was made of silver alloys, but that was pretty expensive for most people's pockets. So then someone started silver plating cheaper metals like brass. Looked as good as silver for a lot less money-until you polished the silver plating off and the brass started shining through. But after a while someone decided to start making it out of stainless steel. No rust, no polish needed, and while it didn't take a shine like silver, it was good enough for most folks. But people had been calling the package of knives, forks and spoons 'silverware' for so long that the name just carried over to the stainless steel version. Anyone who was trying to be really correct would say 'flatware,' but in over ninety-nine percent of the homes in America, if someone said 'Get the silverware out and set the table,' what came out of the drawer was stainless steel."
"So what you saw the man in the green coat selling was not silver?"
"Nope. It was pretty definitely stainless steel-it's got a characteristic look to it-and from the brief glance I got it wasn't even some of the better stuff. But good, bad or ugly, I saw at least three pfennigs change hands, so he was getting a good price for that knife, fork and spoon set."
They were entering that section of town that had become a street vendors' haven. One side of the street had been burned down in 1631 when Tilly's troops had sacked Magdeburg. The resulting spaces where houses and buildings had been had mostly been cleared off, but little reconstruction was under way in this area yet. Every kind of vendor and peddler that could be imagined could be found in these open spaces, including some of the more unsavory types. In fact, this was where they had found the pickpocket that had led them to crack the Vogler case.
"So where was he?" Gotthilf started looking around.
Byron pointed. "There-about half a block down on the left."
They drew closer. "He's not there now," Gotthilf observed.
"No joke. Let's start asking questions."
After close to an hour of asking fruitless questions, Byron pulled Gotthilf back into the traffic moving in the street. "Come on. We're not getting anywhere. Let's go check on Willi." They started walking on down the street toward Das Haus Des Brotes, the bakery operated by Herr Anselm Ostermann and his formidable wife, Frau Kreszentia Traugottin. Anselm was the baker, and Frau Zenzi, as she was known to one and all, was the public face of the bakery, ranging from cajoling saleslady to shrewd bargainer to hard-faced punisher of theft in as many breaths. They had become the foster parents of young Willi, the almost totally blind eight-year-old boy who had, all unwittingly on his part, led the two partners to the discovery of the faginy ring operating in Magdeburg under the very noses of the city council and the watch.
At the bloody conclusion of the case, which had ended in the death of one of the children-a girl who was Willi's best friend-and the death of the fagin, one Lubbold Vogler, there had been red faces all around. Otto Gericke, Burghermeister and de facto head of the Magdeburg civic government, had not minced words. Nor had the senior pastor of the city, whose outright horror at what had occurred had turned to rage of Biblical proportions. Clerks had been sent scurrying to find the lists of the children orphaned in the sack of the city in 1631. Assistant pastors had been handed the lists and sent out at a run to verify the whereabouts and condition of each of those children. There was a feeling that thunderbolts were about to strike, and it did not ease for over a week until the last of the children and their foster parents had been located. Broadsheets and newspapers had kept the matter fresh for several days, until the latest news from the imperial court had driven it off the front pages.
The source of it all, young Willi, was up to his elbows in bread dough when Byron and Gotthilf were ushered into the back of the bakery. He had flour on his hair, on the cloth that covered his damaged eyes, on his eyebrows. Bits of dough were stuck to his chin and cheek.
The smile on Willi's face was a welcome sight to the two men. The recent changes in his life had left the boy depressed for some time. To see some happiness in him lifted them both up.
"Willi," Frau Zenzi announced, "your two favorite watchmen are here."
"Hey, Willi," Byron said. "How's it going?"
"Herr Byron, Herr Gotthilf!" Gladness rang in Willi's voice. "I'm learning how to knead the dough. Papa Anselm says that when I learn to do that, then he will teach me how to shape it for the oven."
"That's good," Byron exclaimed. They spent several minutes talking with Willi. He very proudly showed off what he had been taught, and the two men congratulated him profusely.
After a time, they said their farewells. Frau Zenzi followed them outside. "Truly, how does he do?" Gotthilf asked.
"Well enough," she replied. "He smiles more, and even whistles or sings a bit now and then. The voice of a cherub, he has."
"Don't let my sister-in-law, Marla, hear that, or she'll have him in a choir so fast that you wouldn't know what happened." Byron's voice was joking, but then his expression turned thoughtful. "Actually, I might mention it to her after all. If he's good, she might be able to find him a place, give him some training, like that. With singing, his eyes won't hold him back." Frau Zenzi frowned a little. "I'm not saying right now. Maybe never. But it's an option. Something to think about. Give some thought to what kind of future a blind boy can have, Frau Zenzi." She nodded slowly.
"Is he still having the nightmares?" Gotthilf asked.
"Not so much. And he asked to go to her grave, so we took him last Sunday." Her was his friend Erna, the one who had been killed.
"How did that go?" Byron had been wondering when Willi would make that pilgrimage.
"He cried, but it was quiet. He took the cloth off his eyes and tried to look around, but we could tell he saw nothing. My heart, it broke when he asked me to tell him what everything looked like." She wiped a tear from her eye with the corner of her apron.
"It sounds like he's getting better, then." Byron nodded to her in parting. "Take good care of him, Frau Zenzi."
"We will."
Harold Baxter set his stein down with a thump and dragged his sleeve across his mouth, then smoothed down his scraggly beard. The seventeenth century's widespread acceptance of full beards was a good thing in his mind; he'd always disliked shaving. He still had the straight razor his grandpa'd given him over forty years ago, though. Push came to shove, it wasn't a bad hideout weapon. It had gotten him out of more than one bar fight alive over the years, both up-time and down.
He let a belch roll out, and gave himself a three for it. Tone was a little dead. Then he looked across the table at the man who was fidgeting with his own stein.
"So, what do you want, Herr Albret?" Harold knew the other guy's name was Albrecht Lang, but he had trouble with the German "ch" sound, especially after a few beers.
"I need more of the Tafelsilber, bitte, Herr Baxter."
"How much more?"
"I can sell three packages tomorrow, if I have them."
Harold nodded. "Show me the money." He watched as Herr Lang counted the pfennigs to the table, one at a time… four, five, six
… and slowly pushed them to Harold's side. His eyes narrowed; he pushed one of the coins back. "You suckered me once with a Halle pfennig, Lang. Not again. Good silver, or you get nothing."
"But that is all I have." Lang's nasal voice turned whiny, sending a shiver down Harold's spine.
"Shut up." Lang shut up. Baxter swept four of the pfennigs into his hand and dipped into a pocket of his bush jacket, then pulled bundles wrapped in none-too-clean scraps of cloth out of another of the jacket's many pockets. "Here's two sets. I'll be here tomorrow if you get more money." Lang looked like he wanted to argue or plead, but a glare from the up-timer made him gulp and grab the last two coins off the table top along with the bundle. "And Albret?" The down-timer froze. "You try that trick with a Halle coin again, and your prices will double." Lang jerked his head in a nod, then fled without another word.
Harold sniggered, then spat into the fireplace. He'd always found the fact that Lang meant long in English funny, since Herr Albret was one of the scrawniest people he'd ever met. Nothing about him was long, except maybe his hair and his nose. The thought of hair brought a reflexive scratch of his scalp. He drew his fingers away to look at the louse he'd caught, then cracked it between a fingernail and the table.
No one else looked like they were going to approach him, so Harold decided to call it a day. He drained the last few swallows of beer from his stein, then shoved himself to his feet and walked to the door. Before the Ring fell, Harold had always prided himself on being able to walk a straight line, even when he'd taken on a full load of booze. He could still do it, he thought as he went out the door.
Two men across the room watched Baxter leave.
"That him?"
"Yes."
Byron looked across the street as they were headed back to the watch station. A young woman held her coat open for a moment to hide the hand that beckoned to him. He nudged Gotthilf with his shoulder. "C'mon." They stepped across the street to meet her.
Byron knew she was a street walker, but what was her name… oh, yeah, Leonora. Pretty name, he thought. She'd been pretty at one time, in a pale-skinned sort of way; pretty enough to perhaps live up to her namesake. No longer, however. For all that she was young, there were lines graven in her face that spoke of pain and wastage, lines that turned her visage into a portrait of experience and suffering with eyes full of desolation that wouldn't have been out of place on a woman three times her age.
"Don't smile at me," she said. "Act angry, please." Byron caught on immediately, and pasted a dark frown on his face. Gotthilf took a moment longer to understand, then his expression turned stern.
"You reached out to us," Byron said, shaking his finger in her face for those who watched. "What for?"
"You look for a man in a green coat, one who sells things from the up-time?"
"You know we do." Gotthilf postured by grabbing her shoulder.
"His name is Albrecht Lang."
"Ah." The two men stored the name away.
"Do you want to know who he gets his wares from?" Leonora looked down as if being chastened.
Byron had to struggle to keep his expression in place. "If you know who it is, you bet."
"An up-timer named Harold Baxter."
"How do you know that?"
"Albrecht arranged for me to spend a night with Herr Baxter." Leonora wrapped her arms close around her chest and looked away. "He hurt me."
A flash of rage went through Byron. "So, why are you telling us?"
"You were nice to Annie. And someone needs to stop Baxter. He will kill one of us some day-us or others."
"You're not the only one he's hurt?"
"No."
He wanted to have a talk with Baxter, Byron decided.
"Is there anything else you can tell us?" Gotthilf asked.
"No."
"Okay." Byron started shaking his finger at her again. "Don't do anything stupid, but if you need protection, come to the watch house and tell them my name. We're going to walk off now, so look dejected."
The two men walked away from the streetwalker and resumed their journey to the watch house. "Another victim," Gotthilf muttered.
"Yeah." Byron shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. "You know, I'm not religious, not like my wife and sister-in-law, but the more time I spend in this job, the more it seems like the concept of original sin just has to be true. I mean, look at us." He gestured around. "Every society the world has recorded history about had prostitution. And for every streetwalker who gets rich as a high-level courtesan or finds a loving marriage, a thousand or more die, old before their time, used, abused, diseased and usually wrecked by alcohol or worse. If man is so good and so perfectable, why does this crap happen over and over and over?"
"You had them up-time?"
Byron gave a short bitter laugh. "Oh, yeah, we had them up-time. And we were still arguing about what to do about them. Almost four hundred years later, and we weren't doing any better than your time does."
The rest of the walk occurred in silence. Both men were alone in their thoughts, each in his own way contemplating the difference between what had been and what was now.
Gotthilf bounced into the office he shared with Byron. "Good morning!" he exclaimed.
Byron winced, and waved at a chair. "Sit, sit, and be quiet until I finish my coffee."
Gotthilf grinned and sat. Bill Reilly had explained to him not long ago that Byron was in no way a morning person, and if he wanted to preserve tender portions of his anatomy from being chewed upon, he shouldn't approach Byron in the morning until after he'd had at least one oversized mug of coffee. From the looks of it, Byron was almost done with his first mug.
It wasn't long before Byron set the empty mug down. "Stop smirking at me, and let's go see the boss."
Gotthilf followed him to Captain Reilly's office.
"Hey, Bill."
"Captain Reilly."
The captain looked up from whatever he was reading this time, and groaned theatrically. "Oh, no. Both of you at once. What's happened now? Is the Penguin loose in Magdeburg?"
Byron laughed. Gotthilf, on the other hand, was bewildered, and it showed. His partner caught his expression. "Never mind. More crazy American stuff. I'll explain later." He turned back to the captain. "Bill, you ever had anything to do with a guy named Harold Baxter in Grantville?"
"Baxter… Baxter… name sounds familiar, but I can't tell you why. Why are you asking?"
"Because it turns out there may be something to this silverware thing after all, and if there is, he's probably involved in it."
"Baxter… Baxter… Oh, yeah, now I remember. He's Raelene Baxter's brother-she got left up-time. He was married to Sharlyn Douglas for a while, too. I think he's Brandi Dobbs' dad. I remember the divorce… pretty nasty. Dad used to say he was a mean cuss, and there was apparently some pretty strong evidence that he was abusive to Sharlyn and Brandi. After that, he moved out of town and raised fighting dogs… mostly pit bulls. I'd forgotten he got caught up in the Ring of Fire. He must have been in town to buy something."
"You don't know any more than that?"
"Nope. If it's him, he's about the same age as my dad, so I didn't really know him. Just some of the stuff from the rumor mill, you know. But I remember Dad saying that if it ever came down to a no-holds-barred no-rules fight with anyone, Harold was the one man in town he wanted on his side, 'cause there wasn't anything he wouldn't do in a fight."
Gotthilf swallowed. This Herr Baxter did not sound like anyone he wanted to get involved with. He looked to Byron, and saw that his partner was sober-faced; no funny expressions at all.
"If we need to know more, who should we talk to?"
"Maybe Frank Jackson. Like I said, Baxter's from my dad's generation, so he ought to be around sixty years old. He's maybe just a little older than Frank, so Frank probably knows something more about him."
On their way out of the office, Gotthilf looked at Byron. "The Penguin?"
"Well, before I can tell you about the Penguin, we'll have to talk about Batman first."
"Batman?" Fledermaus? Hieb? All sorts of thoughts went through Gotthilf's mind.
"Batman. See, there's this comic series…"
Americans were crazy, Gotthilf decided yet again.
Baxter watched his last customer of the day walk away from his table. The backpack he'd brought with him was empty. Six settings of stainless steel, a couple good butchers' knives and two settings of Melmac had all sold. Those who bought from him knew better than to try and bargain any longer. Once he said his price, that was it. Early on a couple of guys had tried to bargain with him, but he'd showed them. Every time they argued, he raised the price. He snickered at the thought of their expressions.
He emptied his stein and waved for another. The thought ran through Baxter's head that he was getting into a rut. Maybe he needed to start looking for the dogs he had planned to buy. From the looks of it, he'd never have much more money than he had now. His stash of "unique up-time wares" was about to run out, and with Grantville bulging at the seams, he'd never be able to scrape up its like again. From what he could tell, even the garage sales in town were a mere shadow of what they used to be like. Seemed like whenever anything was offered for sale nowadays, down-timers would swoop down and carry it off, with only enough bargaining to salve their own pride. Nope, if he wanted to get his kennels started up, he'd have to get started, and right soon.
"Now?"
"No." Benedikt Schiffer looked to his younger brother Ebert-half-brother, actually-as the familiar thought ran through his mind that his brother wasn't much brighter than the boar he was named after. Of course, the thought continued, his mother was noted more for being soft and placid than for any great amount of mental strength. Benedikt had inherited their father's brains and his mother's hardness. "No, Eb, we need to wait a bit longer. Make friends with him first."
"Oh." Ebert turned his stein in his fingers. "I wish Lubbold hadn't gone and gotten himself killed."
"Me, too, Eb. And don't talk about him anymore."
"Why, Ben?"
"Because," Benedikt summoned all of his scant patience, "he did something bad. He killed a little girl, and if people find out we were his friends, they might get mad at us."
"Oh. Okay."
That American word was popping up everywhere these days, Benedikt thought, then turned his mind back to Lubbold Vogler. Vogler the mastermind, whose plan to link gangs in different cities so that stolen goods could be transported to different regions for resale died just as it was about to be put into effect. Benedikt had come from Hannover with the final agreement of their folk, which was all that was needed according to Vogler, only to find him dead. Killed in a fight with city watchmen led by up-timers. Called themselves Polizei now, whatever that was supposed to mean. But to have everything-all the plans, all the contacts, all the names-resident only in Vogler's mind meant that it was all fuel for the flames of Hell. If the city men hadn't shot Vogler, Benedikt might well have done it himself. He ground his teeth until his jaw ached.
So now, now Benedikt was trying to find something with which to salvage this trip, and he had stumbled onto Herr Baxter peddling bits and pieces of the up-time. He took another glance at his target out of the corner of his eye.
Gotthilf looked to Byron. "Is Herr Lang in sight?"
"No." Byron muttered.
"What was that?"
"I said, you'd think it wouldn't be that hard to find one man."
"Like you told me, if it was easy, they wouldn't need us." Gotthilf smiled.
"Oh, shut up."
Harold looked up as two men seated themselves across the table from him. "I don't know you." Harold was a direct man. He didn't see much sense in dancing around-just get to the matter at hand. "What do you want?"
"Ah, but you are well known, Herr Baxter. You are the man with the many up-time things-small things, but things that are so very useful that many people want."
"You want them?" More directness.
"Perhaps, Herr Baxter, perhaps. And there may be other things we want that you might be able to help us get. But I forget myself, talking business before introductions. I am Benedikt Schiffer and this is my brother Ebert."
"Harold Baxter." Harold decided there was nothing lost by being polite, especially since they already knew his name, but he dropped his hand into his pocket to grab his razor just in case. "You boys ain't from around here, are you?"
It appeared to Harold that it took the other man a moment to figure out what he'd said. "No, Herr Baxter, we are from Hannover."
"That's a pretty fair distance from here." Harold spit into the fire. "You all didn't come this far just to talk to me."
Benedikt waved at the waitress, and held up three fingers when she looked his way. "We came to conclude a business agreement, but by the time we got here, the merchant had died. We were seeking some other opportunity, when we happened to see you making your deals with the local peddlers. Your wares would be very welcome in Hannover, so we are interested in buying as much as we can."
Harold's mind began racing. These guys weren't from here… they might pay a premium for what stock he had left. There were bits and pieces of stainless and a couple of knives still in the footlocker he had stored at the goldsmith's, but the prize was a full set of stainless and two sets of Melmac that he hadn't had to break up yet. He should be able to hold them up for good money. Maybe his kennel was closer than he thought.
"Well," Harold drew the word out, "we might be able to do business, depending on what you want and how much you want to pay."
Benedikt laid a groschen on the table. "We have money. How much we pay depends on what wares you have."
Harold scratched his chin, thinking. "I'll want some silver-quite a bit of it for some of my stock-but maybe you boys can help me." Benedikt cocked his head and nodded for the up-timer to continue. "I want some breeding stock-dogs-fighting dogs, you understand?"
"Like they use in bear baiting?" Benedikt asked.
"What's bear baiting?"
The two brothers looked at each other with obvious astonishment. Benedikt turned back to Harold. "Bear baiting? Where a bear is chained to a post, and a pack of dogs is loosed upon him? It is good sport."
"Chained?" Harold went beyond astonishment. "Chained how?"
"By the neck, or by a hind leg. There is much cheering, and betting on whether the dogs kill the bear or the bear kills the dog."
Thrills were running up and down Harold's spine. "You're serious? They really do this? Where at?" He swallowed spittle.
"They did not do this in the up-time?"
"Are you kidding? I've seen dog fights and cock fights, but never anything like what you're talking about. The animal rights folks would have had to change their pants, they'd have been so upset. The old ladies in the churches would have screamed so loudly if something like that show was put on, the government would have shut it down so fast your head would be spinning. They'd have thrown everyone they found at it in jail, and lost the keys to the locks."
A bear-dog fight! Harold was salivating. It would be like something out of the old Roman days, he thought. Man oh man, he had to get in on this!
"So, uh, you boys know someplace where this happens?"
Benedikt got a knowing look in his eyes, like he knew he'd hooked a fish. Harold didn't care. If they could take him to a place where fights like that happened…
"This is not our first time in Magdeburg, Herr Baxter." Benedikt's voice was smooth. "There is a bear pit outside the city. We know where it is." He turned to Ebert and rattled something else off too fast for Harold to follow. Ebert stood and went to the bar. "Ebert will see if the bar man knows when a fight will be."
When he came back, Ebert rattled off some fast words in their version of German that Harold didn't catch. Benedikt asked a question, and Ebert nodded. Benedikt turned back to the up-timer with a smile that bordered on sly. "Fortune smiles on us. Tonight, Herr Baxter; there is a fight planned tonight."
Byron and Gotthilf had been searching for Albrecht Lang for a couple of days now, and even the normally ebullient Gotthilf was starting to show some signs of irritation. They walked along this morning, hands in pockets, with none of their normal conversation. For lack of a better destination, they were headed to the street where Byron had first seen the man, with the intention of once again questioning everyone in sight.
"I suppose that," Gotthilf finally said, "if nothing else, we might make ourselves so great a nuisance that someone will say something just to get rid of us."
"That's possib…" Byron stopped in mid-word and grabbed Gotthilf by the shoulder. "There he is-straight ahead and off to the left, next to that vegetable cart."
It took a moment for other people to move out of the way enough for Gotthilf to spot their target. "I see him. He looks like a rat."
Byron chuckled, leaned over and murmured, "I'll go around the crowd and come up on the other side of him. Count to a hundred, then move toward him."
One of the things that still sometimes amazed Gotthilf about the up-timer lieutenant was that he could slide through a crowd of people like a knife through water-barely a ripple showing his passage. He wasn't sure if it was an up-time thing, or a tall person thing, or maybe just a Byron thing, although if he had to pick he'd probably take the last. But after a moment, he shrugged and started counting.
"… 98, 99, 100." Gotthilf tugged at his jacket, patted the pockets where his new badge and his pistol rested, and started toward the object of their search. "Herr Lang?"
"Yes?" An obsequious smile appeared on the pointed face of the peddler. "How may I help you, Herr…?"
Gotthilf pulled his badge out and showed it to Lang. " Polizei." Before he could get another word out, Lang whirled and started to run
… right into Byron, who grabbed him, spun him around and hauled one hand up behind him until his elbow was almost touching his shoulder blade.
"Herr Lang," the up-timer pronounced, "we have some questions for you. Now, we can do this one of two ways: you can come with us politely and we'll buy you a beer afterwards, or we arrest you on suspicion of selling stolen merchandise and you can talk to us in the magistrate's court. What's it going to be?"
"I… I know n-nothing," Lang stammered.
"You are wrong," Gotthilf purred with a stark smile. His voice dropped to a murmur. "You know about Harold Baxter, and you really, really want to tell us all about him." Lang turned white, and would have dropped had Byron not been holding him up. "So let's go find that beer and you can tell us what you know."
Harold sat straight up in bed, then almost fell back again as someone drove a hot railroad spike through his temples. His stomach was calm, for which he would have thanked God if he believed in him. But his head felt as if someone was using the inside of it as an anvil to pound out horseshoes. He stood and stumbled to where his bush jacket hung from a peg in a wall. From one pocket he pulled a pill bottle, from which he shook a couple of APCs into his hand. Another of the many pockets produced a flat Jim Beam bottle with perhaps a finger's worth of amber liquid in it. The pills went into his mouth, followed by the last of the whiskey. Holding the bottle up in front of him, Harold said, "So long, Jim. I'm going to miss you." He screwed the cap back on the bottle and set it on the table. Something else that could be sold.
It wasn't long before Harold felt half-way human again. What did he drink last night? The memory came to him: oh, yeah-shots of gin chased with ale. He remembered drinking Ebert and Benedikt under the table after the bear fight.
The bear fight! His normally fulsome vulgar vocabulary failed him at the thought of what he had seen last night. The bear pit was really a pit, a big hole that had been dug in the ground, with seats that Harold could only call bleachers built up on both sides of it. Obviously, this pit had been here for quite a while and had regular enough action if the owners went to the extent of building the seating. A beer keg to one side and some guy selling sausages on skewers passed for a concession stand. Harold approved of the owners' smarts, and he was more than a little envious that they could operate so freely in the here and now. Well, it was going to be his turn soon.
The fight, now-well, that was the most fun he'd ever had with his clothes on, better even than the last time he beat a woman into submission until she let him do whatever he wanted with her. The thrill of watching a dozen dogs tear into that bear and the bear tear back was way beyond sex. The blood flowed until much of the bottom of the pit was littered with dog corpses and red mud.
It ended finally. The bear's ears were bloody ribbons, his front paws were mangled and his sides and back legs had had strips of hide torn off of them. Two dogs were left, both of which could have been ancestral stock of Rottweilers from the looks of them. They danced in and out, until finally the bear charged to the limit of the chain locked onto his left hind leg. That quickly it was over. The bear fell, and the two dogs were at his throat in black and tan blurs. Moments later, the weakening roars and bawls of the bear fell silent, to be replaced by the cheers of the crowd-those of them who hadn't lost money by betting on the bear, that is.
Harold came back to the present, grinning for all he was worth. He knew what he wanted to do, now. He wanted to buy some breeding stock from the guy who owned the two big black and tan almost-Rottweilers and breed some dogs. Give him two years with good stock and the training he could give the resulting pups, and he could start cleaning up.
Then he remembered what was supposed to happen this morning. He looked at his watch… only 9 a.m., more or less. Good, he still had time to get his stuff together before the Schiffer brothers showed up. Harold grabbed his jacket and headed out the door of his room.
It wasn't far to the goldsmith's shop. A few minutes later Harold stepped into the front door of Meister Alaricus Glockner. He was met by Dieter, the master's son and oldest journeyman.
"Good morrow to you, Herr Baxter."
"Hi, Dieter. I need to pick up my footlocker."
"Pick up?"
"I'm taking it with me."
"Ah. A moment, please." He turned to an apprentice and murmured something that sent him scurrying for the back of the shop. "Will you be bringing it back?"
"Probably not."
Dieter frowned a little. Harold could see that he was sorry to lose the storage fees they had been assessing to keep his case in the safety of their strongroom. "Well, let me figure up the final charges, then."
The apprentice lugged the footlocker through the back door in the middle of the bargaining over the storage fee. Harold was feeling so good that he only put up a token resistance and paid over a silver pfennig, receiving two broken bits back as change. Just as he bent over to grab the footlocker handle, the back door opened again and a girl entered the shop.
"Didi, did you…" She turned pale, stopped and placed a hand on the wall.
"Did I what, Rosina?"
Harold straightened with the footlocker in hand, smiled at the girl and walked out of the shop. His smile broadened as people stepped out of his way.
Gotthilf watched as Byron pounded on the door of the room for the second time. Still no response. The up-timer looked around. "Doesn't look like he's here. You know the way to that goldsmith Lang mentioned?"
"Glockner. I think so."
"Let's go, then."
"Do we go see Herr Baxter now, Benedikt?"
"Soon, Ebert."
"And will he give us the pretty things?"
"One way or another, Ebert. One way or another."
Gotthilf stopped in the middle of the street.
"What's wrong?" Byron raised an eyebrow.
"I turned the wrong way at that last corner. We need to go back that way."
The two men reversed direction.
"I thought you said you knew the way."
"I do, but I haven't come at it from this direction before."
"Where's a map when you need one?"
"Oh, shut up."
Harold set the footlocker on his bed, then reached over to close the door. He pulled a couple of keys from his pocket, opened the padlocks, and threw open the lid to the footlocker. A quick check verified that everything was still there; all the pieces he needed to tempt the Schiffer brothers. Closing the lid, he snapped the padlocks back and put the keys back in his pocket.
The bush jacket went back up on its peg. Harold stretched, then scratched his chin. The rasp of stubble and beard irritated him all of a sudden, so he decided to shave. It took a moment to unlock the small bag he had chained to the bed frame and pull out his soap and shaving mirror.
The mirror got set up on the mantle over the small fireplace. He poured a small amount of water in the basin on the table, and lathered up enough suds to cover his face. It wasn't as good as shaving cream, but it worked. Harold pulled the straight razor out of his pants pocket, opened it, and lightly thumbed the edge. Still sharp from the last time he had worked it over, so he walked over to the mantle and began to shave.
He mused as he scraped the blade over his cheeks, flicking the suds and bristles against the nearby wall. The razor and the mirror were all he had left of his grandfather, the man who had practically raised him. Old Grandpa Horace had been a hard man, but he'd made sure that Harold had grown up strong. The old man seemed to live forever, but when he died, all that Harold had wanted from his effects was the razor and the mirror. He remembered watching Grandpa shave on Saturdays: the careful stropping of the razor, the ritual of mixing the shaving soap in the mug and brushing it on the sunken cheeks and knobby chin, the watchful examination of the face in the small mirror and careful movements of the hand with the razor. He wouldn't say that he missed the old coot, but something had left his life when they put that pine box in the ground back behind the hill country house where he'd lived and died.
The mirror was very old now, and the silver backing was clouding and pulling away from the glass. Harold wouldn't use anything else though. Sometimes he thought he saw Grandpa Horace looking back at him from that tarnished image with an expression like those he used to have when he would take that razor strop to Harold. Sometimes he shivered, sometimes he laughed, but always there was a cold feeling to his spine.
There was a noise behind him. In the cloudy glass he saw the unlocked door of his room open- stupid mistake, Harold, he thought he heard his grandpa say-and Death step through.
Benedikt looked at the body of Harold Baxter lying at his feet, and cursed roundly and soundly and at great length. "Dead, just like Vogler," he said through clenched teeth, "and just as useless to us." He looked to where Ebert was holding up the length of copper rod, examining the blood and hair on it with every evidence of interest. "Ebert!" Startled, his brother looked to him. "Drop that."
"Okay." The rod clanged to the floor.
The room was a mess. Some of the furniture had been overturned; filth was everywhere. Benedikt looked around. "He said he would have the merchandise here this morning. Now where…" His eyes lit on the strange chest sitting on the bed. The smile that had started to blossom turned into a thunderous frown instead when he saw the locks on the chest. They had to be up-time work. A close look confirmed that, and also confirmed that they would be hard-pressed to open them. The chest, on the other hand, looked to be less strong.
"Ebert, bring that rod here."
"But Ben, you told me to drop it."
Deep breath. "Ebert, bring me the rod."
"Okay."
Just as Benedikt was about to take the rod in hand, there was a click-click from the doorway.
Gotthilf muttered to himself as they turned away from Master Glockner's shop. He assumed his expression was sour. It should be, to match his feelings.
Byron looked over at him as they started back up the street. "Hey, so we missed Baxter. They said he was going back to his room."
"But if I hadn't taken that wrong turn, we would have seen him on the street."
"It's okay, partner. If that's the only thing that goes wrong today, we'll be ahead of the game."
Gotthilf was still frowning when they arrived at the inn where Lang said Baxter lived. They found the innkeeper, who told them which room was the up-timer's, then inquired as to whether he was in some kind of trouble. "Because if he is, take him away. I'll miss his silver, but not his custom."
They had just started up the stairs, when they heard a clang sound. Byron reached for his pistol, so Gotthilf followed his partner's lead. They soft-footed it up the stairs and down the hall to Baxter's room. It was no great surprised to find the door standing open. The sight of the body lying on the floor was a bit of a shock. It wasn't the first dead person Gotthilf had ever seen, though-working with Byron, it wasn't even the third or fourth.
He watched as Byron edged around to where he could see more of the room. Byron waved him over, so Gotthilf stepped over to stand beside his partner. They could see two blond headed men in the room, standing next to the bed, with one of them holding some kind of stick or club. When Byron cocked his pistol, Gotthilf did as well.
"Police!" Byron yelled, and they burst into the room. "City Watch! Up against the wall! Hands on the wall!"
They moved the shocked suspects away from the bed and over to a blank stretch of wall, where they forced them to face the wall and put their hands on it. Paying no attention to the babbling from one of the men, Byron stepped back over to the bed. "Hmm, up-time footlocker, has to be from Grantville. And it's got Harold Baxter's name stenciled on it, so…" Gotthilf kept his attention-and pistol-on the two men, but watched out of the corner of his eye as Byron turned to the corpse, "… this must be the illustrious Mr. Baxter. Let's see if there's anything to confirm that."
Gotthilf turned a little so he could see Byron roll the corpse to one side and pull something from a pocket on the back of the trousers. "One up-time wallet, complete with expired West Virginia driver's license made out to one Harold N. Baxter. Harold," Byron intoned, "you weren't very pretty at your best, but you're definitely pretty sad now that these two reshaped your head for you."
"We did nothing, I tell you!" one of the suspects shouted. "He was like that when we got here."
"Right." The sarcasm in Byron's voice was so thick it was almost visible to Gotthilf. "You just stopped in to see an old friend, and just happened to be holding what looks like the murder weapon when we came in. Tell that to the magistrate."
The magistrate! Benedikt's thoughts were whirling. If this had happened to someone else, he'd be laughing right now, but unless something happened soon it looked like he and Ebert were going to hang for a murder they hadn't committed. The irony of the fact that he had been fully prepared to kill Baxter almost sickened him. How could they get out of this? Even in his extremity, he wasn't thinking of letting Ebert take the blame alone. There had to be a way out.
"Baxter's dead," the tall one repeated. Then came the interruption.
"Baxter's dead, just like Vogler," Ebert recited.
Benedikt watched as the two watch men first stared at Ebert, then turned to stare at each other. Seizing the moment, he pushed off from the wall and caromed into the short one, sending him flying into his taller partner. He grabbed his brother's arm. "Run, Ebert!"
Gotthilf rolled off of Byron and looked up in time to see the last of the suspects going out the door. Byron sprang to his feet and sprinted after them. Gotthilf looked around for his pistol, and saw it on the floor near Byron's. 45 automatic. He grabbed both and ran for the stairs.
He saw Byron leap from the top of the stairs, and arrived in time to see him land on the talkative suspect just as he was about to make the turn for the final steps and run for the outer door. They sprawled on the landing, and the suspect yelled again, "Run, Ebert."
Gotthilf hurried down the steps, but couldn't get past the two men wrestling on the landing. He looked up, expecting to see the one named Ebert running out the door. Instead, there was a loud crack as the man wrenched the end banister post loose from the stairs and lifted it, obviously intending to use it as a club.
"Stop!" Gotthilf yelled. "Stop!" He raised his pistol. The large man ignored him, lifting the post.
The sound of his pistol firing surprised Gotthilf, and again it fired. He hadn't been conscious of firing the double-tap that Byron had drilled him in. Two red dots appeared in the chest and abdomen of his target, and began to spread. The post dropped from hands that seemed to lack strength. The big man staggered a step, said, "Ben.. ." and collapsed on the steps leading up to the landing.
"A little help here, partner," Byron yelled. Gotthilf shook off his shock, stepped down another step and leaned forward to point his revolver between the eyes of the other suspect. "Care to make it three bodies?" Byron asked.
With that, the man went limp, head twisted toward the other suspect, tears running down his cheeks.
After additional police arrived to take charge of the two suspects, living and dead, Byron and Gotthilf returned to Baxter's room. The disarray, the filth, the twisted corpse, all seemed surreal to Gotthilf, especially on the heels of what had already happened. Byron had him stand in the doorway to keep others out while he tried to gather what little evidence there might be besides the copper rod with clotted blood and hair.
"He hasn't been dead long," Byron pronounced. "No signs of rigor mortis yet. The blood on his face is still a bit tacky, even. Hello, what's this?" Gotthilf watched him pick something out of the corpse's right hand. "An old-fashioned straight razor. Not exactly the weapon I'd choose for a fight to the death, old man, but it looks like you got surprised, and you use what you have, I guess. Got any of that waxed paper, Gotthilf?"
He shook himself, and pulled a couple of sheets of the stuff from a pocket and handed them to his partner.
"Thanks." Before wrapping the razor in a piece of the paper, Byron looked at it pretty closely. "Hmm. Well, I don't see any cuts on your face, old man, so the blood I see here must have come from whoever you were fighting with." Byron stopped in mid-wrap. "Gotthilf, did you see any cuts on those two?"
He thought for a moment. "No, no cuts or blood before they went down the stairs."
"Hmm. Okay, that's odd."
Byron started back to the body, then stopped dead in the middle of the floor. He pulled a large pair of tweezers from a pocket, bent down and picked something up with them. "Gotthilf, come see what you make of this."
It was a piece of flesh, flat, not too thick, smooth on two sides with mostly rounded edges except for the raw edge that cut in a diagonal. "I don't know," Gotthilf replied after looking at it closely. "What do you think it is?"
"I think it's an earlobe," Byron said. "And I think it was cut from the ear of Baxter's attacker with this razor." He muttered something.
"What?"
"It looks like our boy downstairs may have been telling the truth. They may not have killed Baxter. No cuts, no mutilated ears." He wrapped the piece of ear in another sheet of the waxed paper.
Gotthilf felt as if he had been pole-axed. "I shot an innocent man?"
"No." Byron wheeled and stared at Gotthilf intently. "You shot a man in defense of your partner. Make no mistake about it. If he'd hit me with that piece of oak, I'd be a body downstairs on the floor instead of what's his name-Ebert. They may be innocent of Baxter's murder, but they're guilty of something, I'd stake my life on it. In fact, I already have, and I owe you for the fact that I'm still breathing."
Gut churning, Gotthilf relaxed a little. "All right. But if they didn't do it, who did?"
"This was a crime of passion," Byron said. "Look at Baxter." He pointed to the corpse's head. "It's all beaten in. Someone beat him well past the point of his death. That only happens when there's a relationship of some kind. Someone who knew him."
"Okay," Gotthilf focused his thoughts on the issue. "So who knows him? Lang," he answered his own question.
Byron frowned. "I doubt it. First of all, I don't think the man could muster this much passion about anything." Gotthilf nodded. "And second, we've had someone watching him all day, remember?" Gotthilf nodded again with a rueful expression. "How about Leonora or one of the other streetwalkers?"
Gotthilf thought for a moment, then shook his head. "No, she was too afraid. And even if she wasn't, she'd have used a knife-any of them would."
Byron started muttering to himself again. Gotthilf's focus wandered, until it lit on the copper rod, now slightly bent, lying on the floor. The blood and hair proved it was the murder weapon. Copper
… copper… copper… He stiffened, then headed for the door. "Come on. We may be too late."
For once, Byron had to hustle to keep up with his shorter partner, whose legs were churning and driving him down the streets. Gotthilf gasped out enough of an explanation as they ran for Byron to understand his reasoning and where they were going. They slowed to a walk when their destination came into sight. Gotthilf grabbed Byron's sleeve and pointed to blood drops on the threshold and a blood smear on one of the door posts, about the height where someone would rest a hand. Byron clapped his partner's shoulder in congratulations, then pounded on the door.
"Police! City Watch!"
No response.
Another thunder of fist on door. "Police, Meister Glockner. We know you're in there. You really don't want us shouting our business to the entire neighborhood." And the neighborhood was definitely paying attention.
After a moment, the door opened to reveal the glowering visage of Meister Alaricus. "Come in, then, if you must."
"I'm afraid we must." Byron brushed by him, Gotthilf following close behind. Once inside, Byron pointed to Gotthilf.
" Meister Alaricus, be so good as to call your apprentices and journeymen into the shop, please."
"Why?"
"Just do it," Byron said in a voice of iron.
The master's glower intensified, if that was possible, but he stepped through a curtain and rattled off a list of names. Within moments, several boys and youths were present. Gotthilf went to each, tilted their heads this way and that. No cuts, no mutilations. He stared at the master's head. No cuts, not mutilations. He started to glance at Byron in bewilderment, but then a thought occurred to him.
" Meister, be so good as to call your children in, if you please."
The goldsmith's complexion now verged on dusky purple. "I will not! The impertinence of this! Explain yourselves, sirs. I will complain to the Burghermeisters about your conduct, indeed I will. I. .."
"Papa, enough." From another door way came a figure of a man, head wrapped in bandages, supported by a girl. From their faces, they were the goldsmith's children.
"Dieter, I forbid…"
"Papa, enough. I will not lie, nor will I allow you to lie for me."
"Dieter Glockner, I presume?" Gotthilf asked.
The man sat on a stool, and his "Yes" was shaky.
"I suspect that if I unwrap those bandages, I will find a severely gashed ear with a missing lobe. Am I correct?"
Everyone in the room looked surprised. "Yes," admitted the young man.
"We found your earlobe." Gotthilf pointed to Byron, who fished the waxed paper packet from his pocket and showed it to everyone. "We found it in the same room where Herr Harold Baxter was beaten to death. Before his death, however, he managed to wound and mutilate his attacker with a razor. That attacker was you, wasn't it?"
"Yes."
"Tell us about it."
Dieter took a deep breath. His sister wrapped her arm around his waist to support him. "Baxter raped Rosina. He threatened to kill her if she told anyone. I found out today, after he came to collect his chest that was stored here. She was so upset on seeing him, that I dragged it out of her."
"So you went to confront him."
"Yes. I wanted him to marry her, or at least provide some kind of compensation. Everyone knows he's been making money selling up-time goods to vendors, and spending next to nothing. He must have a pile of silver."
"Tell me about the rod."
Dieter looked a bit surprised. "Baxter is… was… a hard man. Everyone knows that. I was afraid that when I spoke to him, he might attack me. So I took a copper rod with me."
"To defend yourself if you needed to."
"Yes."
"Tell me what happened."
"I just wanted to talk to him at first, but with every step I grew more and more angry. By the time I arrived at his room, I wanted to kill him. So… I did." With that admission, Dieter sagged on the stool. His sister stood by him, tears streaming down her face, pale and wan, but nodding her head in affirmation.
The audience to the confession all seemed stunned. For a long moment there was silence.
Gotthilf at length cleared his throat. " Meister Alaricus, have you sent for a doctor?"
The master shook his head.
"Do so. We will allow his wounds to be tended before we arrest him."
The rest of the day passed in a blur for the partners: getting the confessed murderer tended to and transferred to custody, writing reports, gathering other information to be ready for the magistrates. By evening, Gotthilf was numb from everything, which was at least partially a good thing.
"Come on, partner," Byron said from the office door. "I'm buying."
"No," Gotthilf sighed. "I'm buying. The first round, anyway."
They made their way to The Green Horse. Gotthilf walked up to the counter and threw a coin on the top. "Ale. Two. Large." They made their way to the same table in the dark corner they had sat at on the night the Vogler case broke. Gotthilf took the seat with his back to the wall, and they applied themselves to the ale.
He broke his silence once, when Byron brought the third refills back to the table. "It shouldn't be that easy to extinguish a man's life. May God never let it be easy for me."
"Amen to that, partner," Byron replied.
Two days later
"This is where your brother's buried." The short policeman pointed to the patch of raw turned earth.
The Magdeburg Polizei had taken turns interrogating Benedikt Schiffer yesterday until they were satisfied they knew everything that could be dragged out of Benedikt about Lubbold Vogler and his schemes. Yesterday had ended with an appearance before the magistrate, one Otto Gericke, who had pronounced judgment after all facts had been made known.
"Herr Schiffer, thinking about committing a crime is no crime before this court. You will have to answer to God for that. And since the Polizei will not charge you with resisting authority, and in light of the unfortunate death of your brother, you are free to go after observing the following judgments.
"First, if you had been a better brother to your brother, he might still be alive.
"Second, you are free to go, as long as you leave Magdeburg and never return."
This was Benedikt's last stop before leaving. The two Polizei officers who had arrested him had accompanied him to the grave. "Good luck, Herr Schiffer." With that brief farewell, they turned and walked back to the city.
Benedikt's vision clouded as he looked at the grave. If he hadn't panicked, Ebert would still be alive. If he hadn't been obsessed with taking money instead of earning it, his brother would still be alive.
He looked up to the gray heavens. "God, I'm not much of one for prayer, but if it is possible, charge my brother's sins to my account and receive him unto Yourself."
Benedikt knelt and placed a hand on the grave. "Sleep well, Ebert."
He rose and dusted himself off, then clutched his coat closed against the March chill and began walking north.
Letters From France
Written by Kerryn Offord
Jena, Winter 1631-32
Henri Beaubriand-Levesque watched the strange vehicle drive past. It was one of the up-timer horseless carriages everyone called an "APC." It was simply enormous, and noisy. Henri concentrated on absorbing all the details of the machine so he could draw it later.
The vehicle had all but disappeared from view when he felt a small hand tugging vigorously on his hand. "Papa! Papa! Come, you must look at this."
Henri let himself be dragged along by his excited daughter. "What's so important, Jacquette?"
"There on the wall, the poster."
There was a poster fixed on a display board on the grocery shop's wall. He let Jacquette's hand go and approached it. It advertised seminars on "the Philosophy of the Essence of Lightning" that claimed to demonstrate and explain the up-timer's science of electricity. A person couldn't be in Jena for long without hearing about the people from the future and their advanced understanding of the sciences. Henri's curiosity was excited. Just what was this "Wondrous Lightning Generator"? And what was an "Amazing Lightning Crystal"? He reached out to guide his daughter. "Come, Jacquette, let's see if we can secure places at one of these seminars."
They entered the shop and approached the shopkeeper. " Mein Herr, I noticed the poster outside advertising seminars on the up-timer electricity. How does one find this Dr. Gribbleflotz?"
The shopkeeper reached for a folded pamphlet and passed it over to Henri. "This will tell you everything you need to know, sir."
"Thank you." Henri started to read the pamphlet.
"Papa, come, over here."
Jacquette was gesturing for him to come to a pile of packages. "What is it now, Jacquette?"
Jacquette held one of the packages up so her father could read the label.
"Gribbleflotz Sal Aer Fixus?" Henri held the package up and asked the shopkeeper, "Is this the same Gribbleflotz?"
"Yes, sir. His cooking powders are becoming very popular. Pfannnenschmidt's bakery, just on the corner, offers a selection of delightful cakes and biscuits made with them. You should try the cakes." The shopkeeper kissed his fingertips. "Delicious."
"Thank you, sir. Maybe I will." Henri folded the pamphlet and placed it in his pouch before taking Jacquette's hand and leaving the store.
Once outside, Jacquette tried to lead her father toward the bakery. "Papa, can we go to the bakery now?"
Henri looked down at his daughter. She had her "butter wouldn't melt in her mouth" look. It reminded him so much of his wife he knelt down and hugged her. "Of course, and we might even sample some of this new cake."
A few days later, after the seminar
Henri placed an arm around his wife. "That was very brave of you to volunteer to let Dr Gribbleflotz charge you up with his Wondrous Lightning Generator, Sarah."
Sarah Beaubriand-Levesque smiled and leaned into his chest. "I didn't feel brave when Dr Gribbleflotz asked if I would stand on the platform."
"But you did it. What was it like having the electricity pass through you?"
Sarah passed a hand through her still messy hair. "I didn't feel a thing, but didn't I look a fright with all my hair sticking out like that?'
Henri shook his head. "You could never look a fright, love. Isn't that right, Jacquette?"
"You looked funny, Mommy."
"Thank you very much, young lady." Sarah sniffed in mock offense.
Jacquette giggled. "But you did look funny, Mommy. Can we have more cake?"
"Of course, we can. Henri, I've been thinking, there could be a good business opportunity introducing the cooking powders back home."
"Sarah, I'm a wool merchant. Why would I want to make cooking powders?"
Sarah smiled and batted her eyelashes at him. "Because I asked you to?"
Henri tried to frown. "That's not fair, Sarah. You know there is nothing I won't do for you." Sighing heavily, Henri gave Dr. Gribbleflotz' laboratory a final look. "I guess it won't hurt to ask what price Dr. Gribbleflotz puts on his formulas."
A couple of days later, outside Dr. Gribbleflotz' laboratory
"Well, that was an expensive meeting. I don't think it was fair of Phillip to leave the bargaining in the hands of his housekeeper."
Sarah made a sound remarkably similar to a snort.
"Well, it wasn't fair. You'd have struck a much better deal if you'd been bargaining with Phillip."
Sarah laughed. "Maybe Ursula and I should have left the two of you to bargain between yourselves, Henri. You certainly became friends very quickly."
"Ah, but that was a meeting of minds. Phillip enjoyed showing me his electricity experiments. He's even promised to help get me a lightning generator of my own so I can hold similar seminars back home." Henri sighed. "I'm sorry that we'll have to spend over a week in Grantville. I hope you'll find something to do while I study the methods at Phillip's Spirits of Hartshorn facility."
"Hopefully they'll have some good shops and maybe something for the children to do. But we head for home immediately afterwards, you hear me, Henri?"
"Of course, dear. The sooner we get home the sooner I can start producing Phillip's cooking powders, and the little blue pills."
Sarah raised her eyebrows. "And, of course, you can try your hand at making lightning crystals."
Henri flushed a little. "Yes, dear. And I can try my hand at making lightning crystals."
Grantville library, a fortnight later
Henri pushed his chair away from the table and stood up to stretch. It was time to finish for the day. He flexed his tired hands and looked down at the meager progress he'd made in copying the article on rubber from the encyclopedia. Sighing heavily, he started to collect his writing instruments and his notes and returned the volume to its place on the shelf. Rubbing his tight neck muscles, he made his way out of the library, waving to the library assistants as he passed them.
It was bitterly cold and there was snow on the footpath. Henri wrapped his coat tighter and, being careful where he put his feet, he made his way to the small hotel where his family was staying. At the rate he was copying articles they'd be in Grantville for at least another week. He shuddered, not from the cold, although freezing droplets had found their way down the back of his neck. No. He shuddered at just how much money Sarah could manage to spend during another week in Grantville. Not that he begrudged Sarah all of her purchases, not when he was wearing the results of one of her early forays. A pair of walking boots, with rubber soles. Custom made by Calagna and Bauer of Grantville, and using salvaged car tire rubber for the soles. Sarah had made friends with a number of the locals and been invited into their houses. There were lots of things she had decided she just had to have in the house back in France. Although what she needed with a sewing machine, Henri had no idea. Her maid Marie did all of the household sewing.
Henri finally stumbled into the family's suite. Sarah rushed into his arms and kissed him. That raised his suspicions immediately. She hadn't welcomed him home like this since they left Jena. Gently he pushed her away so he could look around the room. He was pretty sure he knew why Sarah was suddenly so affectionate, and then he saw it. The children had new toys. Pierre a set of blocks, and Jacquette… she had a couple of dolls. Henri swallowed. He had a horrible feeling about those dolls. "Sarah, are those dolls Jacquette is playing with 'Barbies'?"
Sarah bowed her head. "Yes."
Henri threw his wife a suspicious look. He knew she knew he had a soft spot for the way she looked at him through her eyelashes. "And Pierre? What did you buy him?"
"Just some building blocks."
Henri glared. He'd just seen the plastic bucket the building bricks had come in. Those were up-time plastic building blocks. Between those and the Barbie dolls, Sarah must have spent a small fortune. Not that he begrudged the children having toys, but did she have to spend that much on them? "Sarah, I'm not made of money. What with buying those licenses from Phillip, and the cost of our stay in Grantville, we could find ourselves short of funds before I finish collecting the information I want from the library."
Sarah looked up, and smiled. It was an impossibly smug smile.
He'd seen that smile before. It usually meant she was extremely proud of herself for some reason. "What have you done now, Sarah?"
"I bought some books, Henri, from a most charming American woman." Sarah giggled. "She asked if I was English."
Several up-timers had mistaken Sarah for an Englishwoman because of the fluency of her English. They'd had to explain she was from Jersey, one of the English islands not far off the coast of France, and that she grew up speaking both French and English. "And?"
Sarah led Henri into their room. Lined up against a wall were a couple of boxes and two piles of books. Henri's jaw dropped. Even from the door, he was pretty sure what those books were and stepped over to them. "A set of the Encyclopedia Britannica?" He picked one of them up and looked at it. "The fifteenth edition? Just like the one at the library. How did you manage this?"
"Jacquette made a new friend. Roseanne Warren is a girl her own age, with a younger sister and a brother Pierre's age. Their mother invited us around so the children could play together. Of course I made your apologies, telling her that you were busy in the library making notes from the encyclopedia. She asked if you'd be interested in buying a set of your own." Sarah sighed. "It's very sad, Henri. her husband was left 'up-time,' leaving the family near destitute."
Henri placed the book back on the pile and turned to hold his wife. She was from a seafaring family and knew only too well how the loss of a father could leave a family destitute. "How much did you spend?"
"Twenty thousand dollars."
Henri barely managed not to roar. "Twenty thousand dollars! That's too much."
"That's what Tammy said, but she needed ten thousand just to stop the bank selling her house. So she threw in a couple of boxes of her husband's books and her children added some toys for Jacquette and Pierre." She looked imploringly up at Henri. "Say you're not angry, Henri. Please."
Henri sighed. His wife knew him too well. She knew there was little he wouldn't do for her. He pulled out a handkerchief and blotted her tear-filled eyes. "I'm not angry, Sarah. You've done me proud. With my own copy of the encyclopedia, we can think of heading home. It's a pity it's not an eleventh edition, but I understand there are only two copies of that in the city."
"When Tammy and I were having tea at Cora's I overheard that Schmuker and Schwentzel were selling subscriptions for a new encyclopedia they were planning to publish using a mixture of up-time and local knowledge."
Cora's was a coffee shop where rumors and gossip flourished. It had been a discussion at Cora's that had first sent him to the library in search of information. The topic of Dr. Gribbleflotz and his ten dollar aspirin had come up. The general consensus was that he was taking the people of Grantville for a ride, as aspirin was surely very easy to make. All you had to do was find the recipe in one of the library books. With thoughts of the small fortune he had paid Phillip for those licenses, he'd been very happy to discover there was a lot of difference between what the various books said and the detailed instructions Phillip had sold him. The books had very general terms. Phillip's instructions explained how to manufacture the various products in economic quantities. "Then, if you haven't already purchased a subscription we must do so immediately."
Sarah smiled. "They'll still be there tomorrow."
Henri thought he could drown in Sarah's eyes. Yes, she was right. Tomorrow would be soon enough. Right now, making sure the door was shut was more important.
Fall 1633, Granville, France
Henri finished reading the latest section the printers Schmuker and Schwentzel had sent of their new encyclopedia. He could only marvel. Within another couple of years, he would have his very own set of the most comprehensive encyclopedia ever printed. He settled back in his chair and looked out the window. As far as the eye could see there were green fields dotted with sheep. He let his eyes move closer to home, to rest on a young ram grazing in the next field. He'd been surprised that Madame Richards had been willing to sell a male merino lamb so early in her breeding program. Well, maybe not a purebred merino ram. Madame Richards had been emphatic that although the mother was an up-time merino, she couldn't be sure of the sire. This would be the ram's first full breeding season. Henri had high hopes that the ram would improve the quality of the wool his flock produced.
"Henri! Henri, have I got a cargo for you, my boy."
The booming voice jerked Henri's attention away from the young ram. He turned to see Sarah and her Uncle George standing in the doorway. Henri scrambled to his feet and rushed to greet him. "George, you rogue! How have you been? Sarah was just saying that we haven't seen you since before Phillippe was born."
"I've been busy, Henri. So many ships at sea, so little time. Anyway, I've persuaded my crew that you'll give us a good price for part of the latest cargo we've managed to score. Jean, bring it in.
"I think it's some of that 'rubber' you told me about. It's squishy. You are still interested in rubber, aren't you, Henri? You haven't suddenly discovered there was something new you wanted to investigate?" George actually looked worried at the thought.
Henri shook his head. "No, I'm still interested. Are you sure it's rubber?
"I came across a Portuguese ship." George had done well in the family business. Piracy, or as Sarah preferred to call it, privateering. "According to the logbook, its last stop was in Belem, at the mouth of the Amazon. Didn't you say that there are rubber trees there? And the manifest lists the stuff as caoutchouc. That's just another name for rubber you said."
"Let's have a look at it then."
George moved himself and Sarah out of the way as a stocky seaman walked in with a canvas wrapped bundle in his arms. It appeared to be heavy.
Henri knew better than to expect Jean to leave; he was probably the crew's representative. So Henri ignored him and unwrapped the bundle to reveal a large block of, well, rubber. He gave the amber colored block a brief examination. It certainly looked like what he expected raw rubber to look. He poked at it. It felt sort of spongy. Convinced that the block was in fact rubber, he turned to George. "What's your price?"
"I have two dozen of those blocks. Since you're family, I am willing to sell the lot of them to you at the totally reasonable price of two hundred forty livres."
Two hundred forty livres was probably an order of magnitude more than the crew had expected to get for the strange cargo. "Ten livres each! It certainly didn't cost you that much."
George shrugged. "How do you put value on a man's life, Henri? We deserve some reward for the risks we take." He turned to Jean. "Right, tell the men to start unloading the rubber. Henri is good for the money."
Jean smirked and left. Henri wasn't surprised by the smirk. He'd more or less just bought the rubber without trying to bargain the price down. But then, this was the first shipment of rubber Henri had heard of, and he could afford it. His bleached woolens were doing very well, and his soda factory was almost a license to mint money. The glassmakers were beating down his door to get his pure soda ash. Then there were the other products. The cooking powders hadn't sold as well as he'd hoped. That was why he'd switched to making soda ash in the first place. However, the demand was slowly increasing, and the aspirin had always sold well.
"Well then, George, if we've finished with business I'm sure Jacquette, Pierre and Phillippe will be happy to see you."
Winter, 1633-34
Henri smeared the soft rubber solution over the sheet of cloth, then picked it up by the top corners and placed it in the special chamber he'd built. He closed the chamber and checked that the fire was going and the steam was flowing into the chamber.
While the sheet of material impregnated with rubber vulcanized, Henri wandered over to his latest line of research. Back in Jena, Phillip had shown him up-timer books where balloons were used to contain gases. Henri thought he might have managed to make such a balloon. He had discovered the method after sticking a finger into rubber reconstituted by using turpentine and ether as solvents. It had formed a thin layer. Henri had tried to be patient about letting it coagulate, but in the end he had torn the thin rubber balloon when he took it off.
Rather than use his hand, the next time he used a piece of iron bar. By repeatedly dipping it into the mixture he'd achieved a coating of rubber that was strong enough to roll off the iron bar after it coagulated. That hadn't vulcanized very well. In his next attempt he left the balloon on the bar while he vulcanized it. That balloon had lasted long enough to be used in the exploding balloon experiment. Now he was trying to determine how much sulfur and other additives had to be used to make a good balloon.
Henri touched a finger to the latest balloon. It was ready to be vulcanized. Just a light dusting with powdered talc, and then it would be ready to put into the vulcanizing chamber. The iron bar really wasn't the best thing to use. It had just been the first thing to hand that he could use instead of his finger. He really should find time to talk to the local glass maker about making a glass form, something that would start the balloon in a spherical shape. Keeping it hollow would let him fill it with hot steam to speed the vulcanizing process. If that worked, he could think about making a bigger balloon. Maybe even something that could lift a man.
Henri had just removed his latest balloon from the vulcanization chamber when he heard familiar heavy footsteps. Sarah's uncle George had been a regular visitor lately. The man was fascinated by the balloons Henri was making. "Come on in, George."
"How's the research going, Henri?"
Henri pointed to the latest specimen. The iron rod was about the thickness of his thumb and about a hand span long. The rubber covered most of its length. He unrolled it and blew into it. He let it expand to several times its original size before releasing the air. "What do you think?"
George barely attended to Henri's little demonstration. Instead he took possession of the iron bar. Then he did something that surprised Henri. He pulled a purse from his belt and removed something. It wasn't until George presented the iron bar with the lamb intestine preventative unrolled over part of its length that Henri started to understand George's fascination with his new rubber balloons.
George was all smiles. "A nearly perfect fit. How many of these long balloons can you make?"
"How many do you want, George?"
"Thousands. Tens of thousands."
"George, you may be a sailor, but you'll never use that many."
George laughed. "Not for me, Henri. To sell. Many a ship's captain would be happy to have cheap preventatives. Your balloon preventatives will be cheap, won't they? It's not like they have to be custom-fitted, is it?"
"You can't start a business without a supply of raw materials. Where am I supposed to get a supply of rubber?"
"The same place you got that first shipment, of course."
"George, you can't run a business using pirated raw materials."
"Why not? The Dutch have managed quite well using pirated sugar."
Henri shook his head. "That's different, George. There are hundreds of merchants carrying sugar. But how many have you heard of carrying a shipment of rubber?"
"Just the one." George looked horrified. "But that means we'll have to buy the rubber." Then he grinned. "Ah well. If we must buy it, I know just the man to ask. A Portuguese merchant based in St. Malo." He looked over at the balloon. "Do you want that?"
Henri studied the balloon. "I was thinking of making several more and sending them to my friend Phillip in Jena. Why?"
"I was thinking maybe I should conduct one of your 'scientific' tests. Just to see if it works, of course." George reached over, picked up the balloon and placed it in his purse. Then he rolled the other preventive off the iron bar and put it in his purse, too.
Henri sighed. "A scientific test needs a sample greater than one."
"That's okay, Henri. If you're going to make more for your friend, you can make enough for me. I'm quite happy to be the test subject." George smirked. "I'll even do a comparison test."
"I'm sure you will, George. I'm sure you will."
George reached for the pen at Henri's desk and quickly wrote out an address. "Put a rush on those, would you? I'm going to have a busy few weeks."
Henri watched George leave his laboratory, chortling with glee. Then he looked over at the iron bar. Oh well. The sooner I start, the sooner George can…
He reached for the bar, burst out laughing, then stifled it. The last thing he wanted to do was explain all this to Sarah.
Stretching Out, Part Two,
Amazon Adventure
Written by Iver P. Cooper
Belem do Para, Estado do Maranhao (northern Brazil), Late 1632
Like an arrow falling from heaven, the cormorant plunged into the waters of the Para. For a few seconds it was lost from sight. Then it emerged triumphantly, a fish in its mouth. Two gulls spotted the capture and winged over, no doubt hoping to snatch the meal away. Before they could carry out their designs, the cormorant gave the fish a little toss in the air, and swallowed it. The would-be hijackers swerved, and headed out toward the sea.
Henriques Pereira da Costa, watching this drama from the docks of Belem do Para, hoped that his own dive into the unknown would be as successful as the cormorant's.
He heard a cough, and turned. It was his servant, Mauricio. "We're packed and ready to go." Mauricio hesitated, then added, "May I see the fabulous map again?" Wordlessly, Henriques passed it over.
Mauricio studied it carefully, then handed it back. "It's got to be a fake, boss. I asked around, and no one has explored beyond where this river"-he pointed to the Rio Negro-"comes into the Amazon."
"M-m-my family has assured me that I can stake my v-v-very life upon its accuracy." Henriques had an unfortunate tendency to stammer under stress. It had been mild at first, but had worsened after his parents' deaths.
"Trouble is, you will be staking your life on it… while they're home, safe and sound in Lisbon." Henriques was the Da Costa family's factor in the town, which lay near the mouth of the Para, the river forming the southern edge of the Amazon Delta.
"Bu-, um, -bu-…" Henriques' stammer was one of the reasons he was stuck here in Belem, rather than enjoying the high life of a successful plutocrat in the capital. Instead of collecting expensive artwork and mistresses, he was looking for drogas do sertao-products of the hinterland-that might one day have a market in Europe. Most recently, pursuing a strange material which his relatives called "rubber."
"Speak English, or Dutch, boss, no one here will care." Henriques' stutter disappeared when he spoke a foreign language. Even one of the Indian jawbreakers.
Henriques nodded. "But there are those rumors…"
"Right. Like the Seven Cities of Cibola. Or El Dorado and the Lake of Manoa. Or the Kingdom of Prester John. Or…"
Henriques made a fist, and shook it. "Will you let me finish?" Mauricio subsided. "Rumors of a town called Grantville, which has visited us from the future."
"If true, showing poor judgment on their part."
"Well, even if the story is false, I have my orders. Find the rubber trees, teach the natives how to tap it."
"And your family knows how to tap it, even though they don't know where the trees are?" Mauricio's eyebrows flickered.
"Perhaps they found the trees in the Indies already? Or perhaps it's more knowledge from the future."
"Coming aboard, Mauricio?"
Mauricio jumped into the canoe. The boat rocked for a moment, then steadied. Mauricio nervously checked to make sure that his neck pouch hadn't slipped off in mid-leap. What it held was more precious than gold: his letter of manumission, signed years ago by Henriques.
Mauricio had been born into slavery. His mother had been one of the housemaids employed by Henriques' parents, in Bahia. In his childhood, he had been one of Henriques' playmates. Henriques' handwriting was a disaster-sometimes, even Henriques couldn't read it-and Mauricio had been trained to be his scribe.
Henriques' father, Sergio, was a physician, the usual choice of occupation for a Da Costa who was temperamentally unsuited for the business world. He had one of the largest libraries in Bahia, and it was Mauricio's second home. Mauricio mastered Latin, and Greek, and even Hebrew. Not that there was much need for any of those languages in the rough-hewn society of Brazil.
Sergio's will had instructed Henriques to make Mauricio a curtado , a slave who had the right to earn his freedom by paying a set price. Henriques instead freed Mauricio outright. "I hope you can now be my friend, instead of my slave," he had said. The words were burnt into Mauricio's memory, as deeply as a slaver's brand had bitten into his mother's skin.
The canoe, perhaps forty feet long, had eight Indian rowers and a "bowman." The middle of the boat was roofed over with palm fronds to provide a somewhat flimsy shelter. Henriques was glad to be on his way. In town, his stuttering was a recurring source of embarrassment. In the wilderness, he could relax.
Henriques knew the Amazon about as well as a white man could. He was a criollo, a man born in Brazil but of European descent, and he had been among the first settlers in Belem. Henriques had frequently canoed up or down the main river and its tributaries, and he had lived in some of the native villages for months at a time. Mauricio occasionally joined Henriques, but mostly remained in Belem to look after Henriques' interests there.
It started to drizzle. Mauricio held out his hand. "I thought you said it was the dry season." It was an old joke between them.
Henriques delivered the customary punchline. "The difference is, in the dry season it rains every day, and in the wet season, all day."
Whether in appreciation or mockery of the witticism, the drizzle became a shower. Henriques dived for the shelter, Mauricio following.
"I don't understand," Henriques muttered.
"Huh?" Mauricio had been watching a giant river otter playing in the water. He looked up. "Don't understand what?"
"Why none of the Indians we have questioned have heard of the rubber tree. I would have sworn that they knew every tree within ten miles of their villages." Henriques and Mauricio had visited the tribes of the lower Xingu River: the Tacunyape, the Shipaya, the Juruna. The explorers had been shown some trees which produced sap of one kind of another, but none of them matched the description of the rubber trees.
"So it doesn't grow on the Xingu. Perhaps we'll have better luck on the Tapajos."
"We're in the shaded area of the map, where the tree is supposed to be found."
"Perhaps we don't know what to ask for."
"We asked them to show us a tree which weeps when it is cut. Because, uh…"
"I know. Because the first letter from Lisbon said that rubber is also known as caoutchouc. From the Quechua words caa 'wood,' and ochue 'tears,' that is…"
Henriques finished the thought. "The 'weeping tree.'"
A lot of good a Quechua name does you," Mauricio said. "It's the language of the Incas, who are, what, two thousand miles west of here?"
"Even if it's a rare tree, you would think that some Indian would try cutting it down," Henriques said. "See if it was good for building a dugout canoe, or at least for firewood. And then see it bleed."
Mauricio brushed an inquisitive fly off the document. "Sure, but that might have happened a century ago. And they don't remember it, because they don't use its, what's that word… latex… for anything. The latex is old news."
His expression brightened. "Of course, they might still know of the tree. Maybe they use its leaves to thatch their huts. Or-"
"Um…"
"Or, they eat its seeds. Or-"
"Uh-uummm…"
"I know, it's sacred to their Jaguar God, so it's forbidden to speak to strangers about it."
"Mauricio!"
"Yes?"
"Shut up."
Henriques brooded. Clearly, he thought, merely asking for a "weeping tree" wasn't good enough. But Henriques' superiors, or the mysterious up-timers, had provided more than just the map. He also had received drawings of the rubber tree, and its leaves and seeds. And even a sample of rubber. So he had thought he had some chance of success.
"Shit!"
Mauricio gave him a wary look. "What's wrong."
"I have been going about this all wrong. The drawings are meaningless to the Indians we've been talking to, their artwork is too different.
"What we need to do is make a model of the leaves and seeds. Out of clay, or mud, or something. Life size, if possible."
Mauricio waited for Henriques to continue.
Henriques crossed his arms.
"Oh," said Mauricio. "'We' means 'me.'"
It had taken months, but they found the trees, trained and recruited rubber tappers, and went to work. The rubber tapping operation was nothing like a sugar plantation. The rubber trees were widely separated, perhaps one or two in an acre, and paths, often circuitous, had to be hacked out to connect them. Each tapper- seringuero -developed several routes, and walked one route each day. A route might connect fifty to a hundred trees.
Henriques and Mauricio made periodic trips to collect the rubber, and bring the seringueros their pay, usually in the form of trade goods. And they also took advantage of the opportunity to spot-check that they were following instructions.
"Are we there yet?" Mauricio asked.
"Almost. Yes. Pull in over there." It was a short walk to the trail.
Mauricio stood quietly, studying the man-high herringbone pattern carved on the nearest rubber tree.
Henriques joined him. "Something wrong?"
"I was just thinking, it's like the Amazon writ small."
"What do you mean?"
"Look. You have the diagonal cuts. Those are like the tributaries. And they feed into the vertical channel, the main river. First on one side, then on the other."
Henriques considered Mauricio's metaphor. "And the cup at the bottom, where the latex collects, that's the ocean." He walked over to the trunk, and felt the cuts. "We have a good tapper, here. He's getting flow, but the cuts are still pretty shallow. We won't know for sure until next year, but I don't think he's harmed the tree significantly."
"We really need something better than knives and hatchets for making the cuts the right depth."
"I agree. In fact I said so in the letter that went home with the last shipment. But I have no idea what sort of tool would do the job."
"Are we done here?"
"Well… I want to talk to this seringuero. Perhaps give him a little bonus. Word will get around, and the other tappers will try to emulate him."
They waited for the tapper assigned to this route to appear. Even though they knew the direction from which he would be coming, and were watching and listening for him, they had little warning. One moment, there was nothing but the green of the forest, and the next, he was standing ten feet away, appraising them.
They greeted him, and he relaxed. They offered the Indian some water, and he took a quick swig and set to work. He deftly cut a new set of diagonal grooves, slightly below the ones cut the time before, and rubbed his finger over them.
Henriques complimented him on his work, and handed him a string of glass beads. The seringuero held them up in the sunlight, laughed, and fastened them around his upper arm. He gave the two Belemistas a wave and headed on to the next tree on his route.
The visitors returned to their canoe and paddled on. That evening, they were able to witness the climax of the seringueros ' daily routine.
"Here, look," one said, handing them a large gourd. He had made a second round of his trees in the afternoon, collecting the latex from the cups. Henriques dipped his finger in the milk to test its consistency, and passed it on to Mauricio. Mauricio rolled his eyes, but dutifully accepted the vessel. He made a pretense of drinking from it, which greatly amused the Indian.
It was time for the next step. The Indian dipped a wooden paddle inside, coating it with the "milk." He then held in the smoke of a fire.
"This is exciting," Mauricio said. "Like watching paint dry."
The first coat of latex slowly hardened into rubber, and the tapper put the rubber-coated paddle back in the gourd. He repeated the process, building up the mass, until it had reached the desired thickness for a rubber "biscuit."
He then pried it off the paddle, and handed it to Henriques. Henriques nodded to Mauricio, who handed the Indian some brightly dyed cloth.
"Time to call it a night," Henriques said. Mauricio agreed.
Henriques pointed. "There's a good place for you to hang up your bed." Mauricio walked over, hammock in hand, to the trees which Henriques had marked out. He tied it to one trunk, and was ready to fasten it to the other, when he suddenly stopped short. A moment later, he was hurriedly untying the hammock.
Henriques was laughing.
"Very funny," Mauricio commented. "I haven't been in the rain forest as often as you, but I don't fall for the same trick twice." One of the trees in question was notorious because it often served as a nest for a breed of ants of malignant disposition. It was commonly used in practical jokes on greenhorns.
Mauricio sniffed haughtily. "As punishment for your crime, I am going to read you the poem I wrote last night."
The men were getting bored. And irritable. There had been two knife fights a day for the past week. Benito Maciel Parente knew something had to be done.
"Time for a coreira," he announced. His people were delighted. They so enjoyed hunting. As they readied their canoes, one man accidentally knocked down another. What a few hours earlier would have led to another duel, was laughed off. Clearly, Benito had made the right decision.
It took a bit of time to find a suitable village. At last they found one which, according to his scouts, was in the throes of a festival. The kind that involved imbibing large quantities of fermented drink laced with hallucinogens.
Benito watched as one villager after another collapsed to the ground. At last he waved his men forward. Their first target was the place where the Indians had stacked their bows. They cut the bow strings and threw the weapons into the fire. Then they started shooting. The snores were replaced by screams.
Benito nodded approvingly. "Kill the fathers first, enjoy the virgins afterward," he reminded his band. They didn't need the reminder; and half their work was done already. They laughed as they chased down the women.
The Da Costa family had helped finance some of the sugar mills in Bahia, and it made arrangements for the sugar boats, en route to Lisbon, to stop in Belem and see if Henriques had any rubber for pickup. Those ships came up the coast monthly… assuming they weren't picked off by Dutch privateers near Recife. And the captains didn't mind the stopover too much; it wasn't out of their way and they could take on food and water.
The visits had increased Henriques' popularity in Belem. The town mostly exported tobacco, cotton, and dye wood, but not enough to warrant regular contact. There was some sugarcane grown in the area, but it was used locally to make liquor. So Belem was a backwater compared to Recife. Before rubber tapping began, a whole year could go by without a vessel coming into port.
Henriques was under orders to expand production, but to do that he needed to find more rubber trees, and more Indians to milk them. He hoped that the town leaders, who were mostly plantation owners, would help him now. They had looked down on him for years as a mateiro, a woodsman, and a small-time merchant. The stuttering hadn't helped, either.
"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 facao.
"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 Cristovao." Cristovao 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 facao 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 Maranhao 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 Sao Luis, the capital of Maranhao, but taking one would just delay the inevitable. The authorities in Belem would send word to Sao 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 Sao Luis already, to stop what boats it found, and also warn the authorities. The governor of Maranhao 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 Maranhaos 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 happened 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.
Now that the pursuit was in front of them, they could take it easy for a while. But not too easy. There were other soldiers, after all.
Corporal Bernaldo and his men, with six impressed Indian rowers, strained at the oars of their longboat, fighting against the current. They had set aside their helmets and cuirasses, so their heads were bare, and their torsos protected only by leather vests. These exposed the sleeves of their shirts, cotton dyed with red urucum.
As the western sky darkened, they beached their craft and wandered inland, looking for a suitable campsite. They couldn't see more than fifteen feet or so in front of them, so it wasn't an easy task.
They gradually became aware of a rumbling sound.
"Sounds like rapids," Joam suggested.
"Perhaps it's an elephant," said Antonio.
"There are no elephants in the Amazon."
"That's what you think."
The Indians became agitated. Bernaldo tried to figure out what they were talking about, but their excitement made them more difficult to understand, and Bernaldo was the sort of person who felt that if you couldn't understand his question, the solution was to repeat it, louder.
After a few verbal exchanges which satisfied no one, the Indians fled.
"What's was that all about?" Joam asked.
"What do you expect?" Bernaldo shrugged. "They're cowardly savages."
Antonio wondered whether the natives knew something that they didn't. He also knew better than to say anything.
They could now hear a clicking sound.
"Giant crickets?"
"What's that stench? Some kind of skunk?"
Several dozen white-lipped peccaries burst out of the undergrowth. They were pig-like animals, each about two feet high and about fifty pounds. They weren't happy to discover the Portuguese party. Had they not been clicking their tusks to warn other creatures to get out of their way? The herd included several youngsters, which made the adults especially temperamental.
Peccaries are also known as javelinas, because of their formidable weaponry. They charged. Manuel stumbled, and was gored to death. Antonio and Joam tried scooting up the same tree. Antonio, already on edge, had made his move earlier, and made it up without difficulty, but Joam lost his hold, and slid down. An angry male swung its tusks, slicing open his leg. Joam screamed, but was able to get hold of Antonio's outstretched hand, and was pulled out of the immediate danger. The other three soldiers were on the periphery of the peccaries' axis of march, and they simply ran out of the way.
It was hours before they were reunited. The survivors congratulated each other on their narrow escape.
"Where are the Indians?" asked Bernaldo.
Antonio was studying the river bank. "More importantly, where's the boat?"
" Dios mio!" Plainly, the Indians had decided to row off without them. The five survivors were stranded in the rain forest.
Despite his perilous situation, Henriques was happy. According to his reckoning, today was a Friday, and at sunset he intended to celebrate the Sabbath as best he could. He had improvised Sabbath candles from the stems of a resinous plant, and he had allowed a fruit juice to ferment to make wine. He would have to use the concavity of a stone as a kiddush cup.
He had no bread, let alone challah, unfortunately. But he had a tortilha made from manioc flour, and that would have to do. The Lord would understand when Henriques uttered the prayer, "Blessed are you, Lord our God, King of the universe, who brings forth bread from the earth".
"So, do I pray, too?" Mauricio asked.
"Sure."
"I don't know. Is it a good idea for me to call God's attention to us? You're a heretic, after all."
"Mauricio…"
"He might send an angel to tell those idiot soldiers where to find us."
"Mauricio…"
"Or perhaps he'll just hurl down a lightning bolt." Mauricio darted a quick look at the threatening sky.
"Or-"
Mauricio's mouth was open, and Henriques deftly thrust a tortilha where it would do the most good.
"Just a little further," Henriques said.
"Are you sure you know where we're going?"
"Of course I'm sure."
"That's what you said about the 'short cut' through the varzea."
"This is different." Near the mouth of the Maicuru, they had made a detour north, to find a small hill overlooking the Amazon. There, in a patch of upland forest, Henriques had prudently secreted a cache of trade goods and other useful items. Just in case he ever had to make a run for it.
"I wonder if this hill of yours should be considered an outlier of the Serra de Tumucumaque. According to that fabulous map of yours, the source of the Maicuru is there, about one hundred miles to our north.
"You know, perhaps we should backtrack to the Paru. We could cross the mountains over to the Litani, and the Maroni, and end up in what the map called French Guiana. Not that the French are there yet."
Henriques grunted. "Keep walking, I want to reach the cache by nightfall." The sun was just setting. And night came quickly in the tropics.
"Or perhaps," Mauricio continued, we should head up the Trombetas and the Mapuera, cross the Serra do Acarai to the Essequibo, to Dutch territory."
"Serra up, serra down," Henriques muttered. He stopped for a moment to adjust his warishi, his backpack. Mauricio walked past him; they were on a well-defined game trail.
"According to the maps," Mauricio said, "they can't be much more than three thousand feet high. That can't be hard, can it? Hannibal took elephants across the Alps, after all.
"Not that I've ever climbed a mountain, mind you. Unless this hill counts. Have you, Henriques? Climbed a mountain, I mean?" Henriques didn't respond.
"Henriques?" Did you hear-"
"Freeze!" Henriques shouted.
Mauricio froze.
"Don't move your arms, or your head. Not even a muscle. You can move your eyes… slowly. Look a little above, and slightly to your left."
Mauricio scanned the foreground. Then he saw it, a jararaca verde , a leaf-green colored viper, perhaps two feet long, hanging from a branch nearby. Close enough to grab. Not that grabbing a fer-de-lance of any kind was one of the options Mauricio was considering.
"Very slowly, put your left toe back… not so far… now slowly, bring your heel down, without bobbing your head. Good, now, same with the right. Keep your eyes on the snake at all times."
The fer-de-lance, untimely awakened by Mauricio, was eyeing him suspiciously.
"Can't you kill the snake?" The words were mumbled; Mauricio was trying not to move his jaw as he spoke.
"With a machete? While it's hanging on a tree? Not a chance. Need to club it on the neck, while it's on the ground. With a long club, mind you.
"Keep up your little dance backward, please."
Gradually, Mauricio inched away from the serpent.
"Okay, you can relax."
Mauricio fainted. Henriques poured a bit of water on his lips and forehead. After a few minutes, Mauricio revived. "How did I miss it?"
"In the rain forest, you can see perhaps fifteen feet ahead. But you can cover that distance in ten seconds, even at a walk. You can't afford to relax your vigilance, even for a moment."
Mauricio, his spirits somewhat restored, harrumphed. "You're just looking for an excuse to keep me from talking."
Benito Maciel Parente grinned. "So dear Henriques is a pig-loving Jew. Well, it is my duty, my sacred duty as a son of the church, to bring him home and teach him the error of his ways. Or perhaps the other way around, yes?"
His fellow thugs laughed. Benito had just returned to Belem from a slaving run down the Tocantins, and in town there was much gossip about Henriques' disappearance, and the stymied search for him.
"We'll take three boats, I think. Might as well do a little enlistment of native labor, while we're up the Amazon. Be ready to leave at the crack of dawn, tomorrow."
"Sing, Mauricio."
"I thought you didn't like my singing."
"I don't. But you have a loud voice, and that's what we need right now."
"How come?"
"We've never been in this part of the sertao. This is a well-marked trail, almost certainly leading to a village. We want them to know we're coming."
"But wouldn't the Indians sense us? Being wise in the ways of the bush, and all."
"Let me rephrase that. We want them to know that we know that they know we're coming."
"I am not sure that was an improvement. You are as clear as a philosopher."
"If they think we're trying to sneak up on them, they'll think we are up to no good. And either flee, or prepare an ambush for us. Whereas, if we approach them openly, they'll assume we've come to trade."
A couple of dogs came down the trail and barked at Henriques and Mauricio. They stopped, and left the dogs sniff them. Then they continued walking, and the dogs, still barking occasionally, followed.
The village was just a circle of conical huts. Various animals milled about the central clearing, but no people were there. Occasionally, a head would look out of a hut, then pull back in.
"Hey, that was a pretty girl, over there," Mauricio exclaimed. "Hope she comes out again."
And, a moment later, "Ugh, look at that crone. Hope she's not the mom, wouldn't want her for a mother-in-law."
Henriques didn't respond; he was studying the village. "Mauricio, we need to leave. Now."
"What about trading for food? What about getting better acquainted with the young ladies?"
"Didn't you notice? There are only women in this village."
"Hey, you're right. Wow, we found the village of the Amazon women warriors. The ones Father Carbajal wrote about. And Sir Walter Raleigh. There are only two of us, so we will certainly enjoy favors of their queens. For a whole month. And-"
Henriques grabbed Mauricio by both shoulders and forcibly rotated him about-face. "What it means, dear Mauricio, is that their men are off on the warpath, and we really, really don't want to be here when they come back."
Henriques and Mauricio made it safely back to their canoe, and pressed on. They felt safe enough, at this point, to erect a makeshift sail, so they could travel more quickly. It didn't seem likely that they were still being pursued.
A few days later, they saw a large canoe overtaking them from the south. They hastily took down their mast, but it was a false alarm. The canoe was crewed by Manao Indians. The Manao were great traders, and one of the dominant tribes of the region where the Rio Negro fed into the Amazon. They traded with the Omagua in the west, and, occasionally, the Munuruku on the Tapajos in the east. Rumor had it that they also ranged to the north, up the tributary which Henriques' map called the Rio Branco, but no Portuguese had gone that way before.
Henriques raised his hands, palms open, signaling peaceful intent. The Manao greeted him, and, politely, asked his business in their region. He said that he was looking to trade and, perhaps find a path to the Great Water in the north. He gave them a few beads, and they offered him some cachiri.
They invited Henriques and Mauricio to follow them to their village; they were returning from a trading run up the Madeira, one of the tributaries on the right bank of the Amazon. That night, they camped together, on an island, and Henriques questioned them about what tribes lived there, and what goods they had to offer.
Mauricio eagerly asked them whether they had seen any women warriors there, and they told him that it was a nonsensical idea. "No more cachiri for you," one suggested kindly.
Mauricio whispered to Henriques. "Perhaps these Manao haven't traveled widely enough. Someone else at the village may have heard of the Amazons. After all, Acuna and Raleigh reported them. "
Henriques was unimpressed. "Perhaps Father Cristobal de Acuna and Sir Walter Raleigh were a pair of bald-faced liars."
Summer, 1634
Henriques raised his eyebrows. "You sure you want to go through with this?"
Mauricio continued painting himself for the ceremony. "Coqui told me that I have to, if I want to marry Kasiri. Or any other of the village girls, for that matter."
Henriques knew who Kasiri was. Wherever she walked, she was followed by a crowd of admirers. Including, most recently, Mauricio. Henriques did have to admit that Mauricio seemed to have eclipsed the former favorite. The lure of the exotic perhaps.
As soon as Mauricio discovered that Kasiri's name meant 'moon,' he had started composing poetry in her honor. Fortunately, it was all in Portuguese.
These ruminations only occupied a fraction of a second. "Uh, huh," Henriques said. "Kasiri's older brother really wants to help you get inside her loincloth. Right."
"He's always been polite to me."
"Are you sure you understand what this ritual involves?"
"I just have to let them put a few ants on me. And not complain. No big deal, I've had ants crawl onto my hammock and bite me. Thanks to you. If ants are so bad, why did you try to get me to hang my hammock on that 'greenhorn' tree?"
Henriques decided not to answer with the truth, which was that after years in the wilderness, he had acquired the native taste for practical jokes. "Have it your way. At least you're doing the ant ceremony, not the one which uses wasps. Remember, it's all a waste if you cry out in pain, or flinch away."
Mauricio went off the join the other initiates; in other words, to dance and get drunk, not necessarily in that order. The village maidens brought them gourd after gourd of cachiri, which was made from fermented manioc root. And encouraged their dancing and drinking with flirtatious looks and gestures. At first Mauricio was self-conscious about being in the company of youths little more than half his age. But the cachiri soon took care of that problem. Well before the three days of ceremonial boozing were completed.
On the third day, Henriques went off with the party that was to prepare the marake. The Indians had picked out, in advance, a likely ant colony, and their first task was to drive the ants out into the open. They blocked all save two tunnels, and blew tobacco smoke into one of them. That did the trick. The ants emerged and were carried, on top of leaves or sticks, to a calabash. They were dumped inside, and found themselves awash in an infusion of roucou leaves. This dulled them satisfactorily.
One of the shaman's apprentices used a parrot feather to carefully position each of the two hundred or so somnolent red ants into the mesh at the center of the damp marake, their heads all facing the same direction. It dried, tightening the mesh about them, before they recovered. The apprentice gingerly carried the armed marake back to the chief's hut, where it would remain until noon.
Mauricio felt like he was flying through the air as he danced in the big circle. I wonder what they put in the cachiri? "I am a bird," he shouted. "A kokoi, a hawk." He looked at Kasiri. "Shall I swoop down on you?" he cried. She giggled. Her brother, Coqui, also seemed amused for some reason.
The initiates were called into a line, standing in front of a great trench with bark stretched across its entire length. They rhythmically beat upon the bark with sticks, summoning the Sun God.
At noon, with the sun at the zenith, the oldest woman in the village tottered forward. She picked up the marake, and pointed at Mauricio.
"You first. Arms up, feet apart." He complied, still in a hallucinatory daze.
She raised the marake, and put the business end against his cheeks for a few seconds. Then his arms. His dreamy expression started to show signs of uncertainty, but fortunately he didn't show any pain. His chest. The outside of his thighs.
"Did they warn you that some initiates die in this ordeal?" she asked. He didn't respond.
She paused. Then, very deliberately, she put the marake against the inside of his left thigh. She gave the back a tap, and then held it in place. Ten seconds. Mauricio's eyes widened. Twenty seconds. Each ant bite was a lance of fire, mortifying his flesh.
"Kasiri is supposed to marry my grandson, did you know that? Her grandmother and I had it all planned out, when they were both little. You, a stranger, of no great wealth or skill, are trying to spoil our plans."
Mauricio's eyes were tearing now.
"I can't help feeling a bit… resentful."
Thirty seconds. His breath was unsteady.
"Of course, if you fail the test, there's no problem."
Forty seconds.
"And I take this marake away, and the pain will be over."
Mauricio didn't notice it, but there was angry muttering in the background. And suddenly he heard Kasiri's voice, strident with rage, but he couldn't understand what she said.
The old woman pulled the marake away. "Passed," she acknowledged regretfully. "Next."
Mauricio looked at Henriques. "See, that was nothing," Mauricio declared. Then he fainted.
It had taken a week for Mauricio to recover from the vicious bites. His only consolation had been the solicitousness with which Kasiri had applied oil to the inflamed areas of his body. Still, he had had to be real careful how he walked until the salves did their work.
Mauricio and Kasiri, arm in arm, strolled down the sandy beach where her people went bathing. They passed a small stand of palm trees and, abruptly, Coqui stepped out in front of them.
They halted. Coqui, his lips compressed, arms akimbo, watched them silently. Mauricio waited for Coqui to say something. Kasiri, for once, was also quiet.
Suddenly, Coqui started hopping about, bowlegged, his hands on the inside of his thighs, yelling "ahh, ahh, ahh." After a minute of this, he exclaimed, "You very funny. You now my friend, Ant-Man." He walked off, laughing.
"Wake up, Mauricio." Mauricio didn't stir. Henriques gave the hammock a push, and it started swinging wildly, to and fro, dumping Mauricio to the ground.
"What the hell, Henriques!"
"Time to pack. A trading party came back from down river. Said that they saw a whole fleet of canoes coming upstream. Best guess is that they'll be here soon, perhaps tomorrow or the next day."
"An entrada?" That was the term for an expedition whose principal purpose was purchasing or capturing slaves.
"They did ask whether the Manao had any captives to sell. But what they were most interested in, was whether any white man, alone or accompanied by a black man, had been seen recently."
"Uh-oh. Did the Indians spill the beans?"
"They couldn't, this party had left the village way before we left Belem. But there's more. They described the leader."
"And?"
"He's our old pal, Benito Maciel Parente.
"I'll start packing."
Mauricio broke the news to Kasiri. "So I have to flee at once. I love you, but I don't want to put you in any danger. So I guess this is goodbye-"
She slapped him. "Don't be stupid. I'm coming. And you're letting me come, or I'll kill you myself." She squirmed out of his embrace and started ordering her family around, collecting the supplies which would do them the most good.
The plan was to go up the Rio Branco and the Takutu. The latter did a hairpin turn, and then ran parallel to a Guyanan river, the Rupununi. The markings on the map suggested that the ground there was relatively flat. In fact, the Manao told him that there was a lake that appeared and disappeared there. It sound a bit improbable, but Henriques was willing to grant the possibility that the land between the two rivers flooded during the rainy season. In any event, Henriques hoped to ride the Rupununi down to the Essequibo, and ultimately to the Dutch settlements at the mouth of that waterway.
Somewhat to everyone's surprise, Coqui announced that he would join them. "I don't like any of the local girls. Perhaps I'll have better luck upriver."
The going had been slow. During the rainy season, the water level of the Amazon and its tributaries rose, eroding the banks, and toppling forest giants. When the waters began to recede, the trunks were left behind, hindering navigation.
From time to time, Coqui and Kasiri would leave them and scout their backtrail, to see if they were being pursued.
Henriques and Mauricio, left alone once again, held the canoe steady against the current, studying the latest obstruction. They could get out of the canoe, thus lightening its load, and try to push the canoe over or under the log. They could try to shift the log out of their way. Or they could beach the canoe and portage around.
Like the Indians, they didn't much like the idea of getting into the water. There were caimans, electric eels, stingrays and piranha to worry about. Not all in the same place, of course. And when the waters were high, piranhas usually were a problem only if you were bleeding, or acted as if you were in distress.
On the other hand, the vegetation on shore looked especially nasty, with plenty of long thorns. They would have to cut their way through, and that would be extremely slow and arduous. And a giveaway to anyone following them.
"I guess we're going to get wet," Henriques said. They probed the bottom with their paddles, then gingerly lowered themselves into the water. They each grabbed a side of the canoe and started moving forward, shuffling their feet to minimize the stingray hazard. They looked back and forth, studying every ripple to make sure it wasn't the wake of an inquisitive caiman.
At last, they reached the obstruction. They tentatively rocked the offending log, their attention still divided between it and the river surface. The response was an angry drumming sound.
"Down!" Henriques took a quick breath, and submerged himself.
Mauricio saw what appeared to be black smoke coming over the log, and heading straight toward them. Wasps. Hundreds. Perhaps thousands. Enough to kill them both, several times over.
"Shit!" he agreed, and followed suit.
Henriques had flipped the canoe, and they both swam underneath, putting their heads in the breathing space it provided. The canoe slowly floated back downstream, away from the angry insects.
After some minutes, Henriques poked his head out of the water. No wasps attacked, so he rose further. Mauricio copied him.
"Why did you overturn the canoe? We're going to have a devil of a time finding all our belongings. And some will be ruined, for sure."
"We had to use the canoe so we could just breathe quietly in place. If you swam underwater, in a panic, your flailing about might have attracted piranhas." He paused. "Some things will float down to where we are now, and in an hour or so, it'll be safe to go back and look for the stuff which dropped to the bottom. Provided we don't rock the log, of course."
"How come we didn't hear the buggers? Or see them flying into and out of their nest?"
"Those were Acaba da noite, night wasps. We disturbed their beauty sleep."
"Jeesh. They should have a sign, 'Night Workers. Day Sleepers. Do Not Disturb.'"
"Trouble," Coqui announced. "Some of the bad people are coming up this river."
"How many?"
"Many." Henriques cursed the inadequacies of the Manao counting system.
"How big is their canoe?"
Coqui thought about this. "It makes two of this canoe."
"Okay, so call it eight of them.
Mauricio piped up. "How soon will they be here?"
"One day, perhaps."
"Too close for comfort," Henriques said. "They have a heavier canoe, so the logs will slow them down more than they do us. But they have more oarsmen, so in clear stretches, they'll be faster."
"If they come as far as the wasp nest log, Henriques, they'll see where we cut around. Then they'll be sure we're up here."
"We need to set up an ambush."
"I know," said Mauricio. "We can half cut through a tree, then, when they reach the vicinity of the wasp nest, fell it. It drops on the log, and rouses the wasps. And they sting the bastards to death."
Henriques sighed. "Have you ever felled a tree before? Can you imagine how hard it is to control where it falls in a forest like this one, dense, with lianas everywhere? And if the wasps didn't kill them all, then the wasp swarm would be between us and the survivors.
"We'll try to kill them with arrows, not wasps."
Henriques, Coqui and Mauricio had bows, but Mauricio wasn't a particularly good archer. He was a good shot, but the musket which they had carefully preserved over the months and leagues of their flight was now entertaining the local fish life. Kasiri only had a knife, and so she had been cautioned to stay back.
The slaver's canoe came into view. Coqui gave a bird call, to warn the others to engage, and then fired. His arrow took down the rear man, who was steering. Henriques' shot killed the poleman in front. That threw the crew into disarray. Coqui picked off another.
The slavers were returning fire now, and Henriques party had to take cover. In the meantime, the slavers beached their canoe on river left. That was Henriques and Mauricio's side. There, on the strand, another of Benito's men fell, with one arrow in his chest, and another in his left arm. The others ran into the bush.
Coqui, on the right bank of the river, grunted, and set down his bow and arrows. "Wait here," he warned Kasiri. "Stay out of trouble." Coqui, armed with a blowgun, and the steel hatchet Mauricio had given him, went downriver, and around a bend, then swam across, out of site of the pursuers.
Henriques and Mauricio had dropped their missile weapons; there were too many leaves and branches in the way. The slavers likewise realized that the time for musketry was passed; they drew their machetes.
The slavers were at a disadvantage; they hadn't walked this ground before. Henriques and Mauricio took advantage of their ignorance, making quick attacks and then disappearing. In the slavers' rear, Coqui aimed his blow gun at the rear man, the dart hitting him in the neck. He slapped, thinking it an insect sting. A moment later, he collapsed.
Coqui picked out his second victim, and fired. But the second one cried as he fell, giving warning to the others. One turned, and Coqui had to leap quickly out of the way of a machete swing. There was no longer any question of reloading the blowgun. And the hatchet was a good weapon, but not the equal of a machete. Coqui backed up rapidly, a move which would have been dangerous for anyone lacking his wilderness senses. The machete wielder followed and, in his haste, stepped in an armadillo hole, turning his ankle. Coqui finished him off.
One of the surviving slavers decided he had enough, and fled down river on foot, running past the boat. Coqui hesitated, then decided he couldn't take the chance that the man would summon reinforcements. He gave chase.
Henriques and his last opponent gradually shifted deeper into the forest, out of sight of the others.
Mauricio and his foe wandered onto the beach. Both were tired, and bleeding from small cuts, but neither had been able to strike a decisive blow. They circled each other warily.
One of the slavers struck down on the beach earlier was not dead, as Mauricio had assumed. As soon as Mauricio back was to him, the injured man slowly crawled to where his musket had skittered earlier in the action. It was still loaded. He only had one good hand, so he braced the musket on a rock.
Mauricio's more obvious foe could see what was happening, and did his best to keep Mauricio's attention directed forward.
The musketeer took aim at Mauricio's back… then slumped, an arrow in his neck.
Kasiri was holding her brother's bow in her left hand; a fresh arrow was already in her right.
Mauricio's other foe was taken aback, and just stood, open-mouthed. Kasiri's second shot killed him.
A few seconds later, Henriques struggled out of the bush, and gave Mauricio a nod. Henriques grabbed a leaf and wiped his blade clean.
"Where's Coqui?"
Kasiri crossed the river and told them she had caught a glimpse of him heading down river, pursuing the last of the slavers.
"We better not take chances. Grab a musket, Mauricio, and I'll get my bow." They all concealed themselves, not knowing if more slavers might be on their way.
Soon, Coqui returned, smiling. Until he saw Kasiri, still holding the bow.
They were soon screaming bloody murder at each other.
Mauricio gave Henriques an anguished look. "What are they saying, Henriques? You know their language better than I do. They are talking too fast for me to make out more than one word in three."
"He's angry at her, because she used his bow."
"I'm not complaining! She saved my life."
"He says, 'Picking up a man's bow makes a woman sterile, everyone knows that'. And that means that she can never marry, because by Manao law, a man and woman cannot marry until she is pregnant."
"What about Raleigh's Amazons? They use the bow, according to legend." Coqui turned to look at Mauricio, his face suddenly a frightening mask. He shouted an insult, and brandished his hatchet. Kasiri shoved him and did some shouting of her own.
"Ouch, you shouldn't have mentioned that. He remembers now you that you spoke of them publicly once. He thinks that Kasiri must have overheard, that you put the idea of female archery into her head. Thereby ruining her marital prospects.
"He also says that the story of the Amazons is complete nonsense, that the 'stupids'-meaning the Spanish-must have seen one of the tribes whose men wear their hair long."
Henriques paused to listen to Kasiri's response. "And she said that she made her own little bow years ago and has been sneaking off and practicing with it for years. And then he said that explains why she hasn't ever gotten pregnant, despite, uh, never mind."
Mauricio said, "I'll settle this."
He confronted the quarreling siblings.
"So, Coqui, you think she's unable to bear children." The Indian nodded.
"Well, perhaps that means that only with an Indian father. But I'm not Indian."
She ran over and hugged him. Then dragged him off into the bushes.
"Brother, when my tummy comes out, so you know I am right and you are wrong, I expect you to make me a real bow, not the toy I had to sneak around with." The "real bow" was six feet tall, and used eight foot arrows.
"You mean if your tummy comes out."
"I said, when."
"Fine. When. In the meantime, I'm going hunting."
"Stop tickling my toe, Kasiri. Kasiri?" Mauricio awoke to find a vampire bat feeding happily on the appendage in question. Mauricio started kicking, to persuade it to move along.
Kicking while in a hammock isn't recommended. Mauricio tumbled to the ground, and a well-nourished vampire bat flitted off.
Fall 1634
It was an awkward time to attempt to cross from the Takutu to the Rupununi. A few months earlier, the area was completely flooded, forming Lake Amuku, and Henriques and his companions would have had an easy time canoeing across. A few months later, at the height of the dry season, and they could have abandoned their canoe and just walked across the savannah. Unfortunately, this was the transition period. Paddle and carry; paddle and carry.
Visibility was surprisingly poor, given that they were in flat country outside the rain forest. The Rupununi savannah was pockmarked with "sandpaper trees," each six to ten feet high, and appearing every twenty yards or so.
When they spotted it, they were already too close. What they had seen was a mound, a few feet from the edge of a creek. As Amazon dwellers, they immediately recognized it as a caiman's nest. The question that came first to mind was, where's Momma? Unlike, say, turtles, crocodilians were quite protective of their young.
Very, very softly, they set their canoe down on the ground. Kasiri climbed one of the trees, so she could see over the bank. After a few minutes, she spotted it. " Jacare acu. Big one. Close."
The black caiman. The largest crocodilian of South America. Unlike birds, caiman didn't just sit on their nests. But if they left them, they didn't go far off. Any suspicious movement, or sound, would be investigated. And momma's motto was, "bite first, ask questions later."
They signed to Kasiri. "Leave?"
"No. Too close. Wait." She would tell them when the caiman had moved far enough away that they could slip off unnoticed.
The three males kept watch on the mound. If the mother laid down on her nest, and went to sleep, that would work, too. They could pass, at a respectful distance. Even if their passage woke her up, she probably wouldn't charge. Probably not.
What's going on now, thought Henriques. He had seen a disturbance on the side of the mound. It's too early for them to hatch, I thought.
A tegu, three feet long, emerged in a puff of dirt, a black caiman egg in its mouth. It did a little victory dance.
The last spasm of dirt movement had not gone unheard. Mighty Mama threw herself out of the creek, and saw the dastardly lizard. She-all fifteen feet of her-charged.
The tegu fled. Straight toward Henriques and his companions. With Mighty Mama in hot pursuit.
Mauricio gallantly, and rapidly, decided to join Kasiri. He started climbing; Kasiri extended a helping hand. Coqui ran, at right angles to the track of the approaching behemoth, and then found himself a tree of his own.
Henriques hesitated for a minute. Could he grab the tegu and throw him back toward Mighty Mama? That would make a nice distraction.
It was also an insane idea. Henriques sprinted, picking the direction opposite Coqui's.
The tegu ran past Mauricio and Kasiri's tree. Mighty Mama, still intent on the thief, ignored the humans' scent and kept running. The tegu was normally much faster, but it refused to let go of its prize, and that slowed it down.
Mauricio and Kasiri looked at the departing beasts, then at each other. In silent accord, they dropped to the ground and ran forward, in the party's original direction. Mighty Mama, they hoped, was sufficiently distracted at this point.
The following day, the rest of their party showed up. First Coqui, then Henriques. Of course, there was one problem. No canoe. They had to circle back and, very stealthily carry it off. It helped that they knew where the nest was, and, equally important, where Mighty Mama liked to lurk This time, Mighty Mama was indeed asleep on her nest, and they took pains not to disturb her.
It wasn't long before they wondered whether it had been worth the effort. The Rupununi fed into the Essequibo, as predicted. What they didn't predict was what the descent of the Essequibo would be like. As the river dropped out of Guyana highlands, there had been a succession of falls and rapids. Most of which had to be portaged. In Kasiri and Coqui's home country, they would have just left their canoe upriver and taken someone else's canoe at the end of the rough water section. They couldn't be sure that this convenient custom applied in the Guyanas, unfortunately, so they had to carry their canoe whenever they couldn't just unload it and line it down.
Eventually, they reached the calmer waters of the lower Essequibo and were able to paddle with fewer interruptions.
Soon, Fort Kyk-Over-Al came into sight, looming above Cartabo Point. It was really a glorified watchtower, with barracks, a magazine, a storehouse, and a few private rooms. It overlooked the confluence of the Essequibo with the Mazuruni and the Cuyuni.
Henriques' party beached their canoe, and approached the fort. A bored-looking guard called down for him to identify himself. "I am Henriques Pereira da Costa. We come from Belem do Para, in the Amazon."
The guard's boredom vanished. "Wait here!" He came back a moment later with several other Dutchmen.
"I am Commander Van der Gies of the Zeeland Chamber of the Dutch West India Company. You say you came from up river, but ultimately from Belem do Para?"
"Yes, we found the connection from the Amazon to the Essequibo."
He was congratulated on this great achievement. The Dutchmen ignored Mauricio, assuming he was a slave. And of course the Indians were equally uninteresting to them.
Mauricio fidgeted. Henriques realized, suddenly, that Mauricio might be uncertain of how their return to civilization would affect his status. Kasiri also seemed ill at ease, sensing Mauricio's discomfort. Coqui, on the other hand, appeared oblivious to their emotional turmoil.
Henriques interrupted the Governor. "Forgive me. Allow me to introduce my fellow explorer, Mauricio… my half-brother."