* * *
“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,” Maurício said.
Henrique 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.”
Henrique and Maurício had hidden their European clothes, and Henrique 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,” João suggested.
“Perhaps it’s an elephant,” said António.
“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?” João asked.
“What do you expect?” Bernaldo shrugged. “They’re cowardly savages.”
António 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 piglike 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. António and João tried scooting up the same tree. António, already on edge, had made his move earlier, and made it up without difficulty, but João lost his hold, and slid down. An angry male swung its tusks, slicing open his leg. João screamed, but was able to get hold of António’s outstretched hand, and was pulled out of the immediate danger. The other three soldiers were on the periphery of the peccaries’ stampede, 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.
António was studying the riverbank. “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 rainforest.
* * *
Despite his perilous situation, Henrique 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 Henrique uttered the prayer, “Blessed are you, Lord our God, King of the universe, who brings forth bread from the earth.”