Prologue 

The slave boy, Bento, stirs in his sleep. Shaken by a nightmare, images of standing alone on a mountain under black clouds haunt him. He rolls over on his straw mat and pulls his shirt over his head. It's too early to get up.

The Parahyba River, swollen by summer rains, flows past the farm between its muddy banks. A half moon slides down the sky and a few reflected stars sparkle in the slow moving water. Wild ducks and herons sleep among the reeds where frogs croak in the shallows.

Slave women begin to open their eyes in the dark. They stretch weary limbs on narrow beds and rejoice in the few minutes of peace before the day's labors begin. When the rooster heralds the dawn, women old and young must leap to their feet to begin another harrowing day. Dawn brings another round of work, more lashes on sore backs, more pain. Just another day.

Only Noemia Emerson Caiara knows it will not be so. Already up, she shivers, dressing in the dark, prepared to call her husband, Juan, who sleeps in the four-poster bed for the last time. Her lips tremble; tears rise in her blue eyes. She gazes at the handsome face; jet black hair shining in the light of the waning moon that filters through the open window.

Juan looks fragile in his sleep, protected by the mosquito net that hangs from a silken cord attached to the wooden ceiling. Pity rises in her gentle heart, but the coming journey is his own choice. She sighs, lights a candle, and wakes the sleeper.

He blinks. The candle light reflects in his dark eyes. He stretches and reaches for her. She slips under the mosquito netting and lays her head on his chest.

"Noemia, my dearest, the time has come. Have you written to your Aunt Judith to come and stay with you?"

Noemia smiles to herself; her Aunt Judith is not prepared for country life. "Yes, Juan, I'm awaiting her answer."

"Henrique will run the farm. He's a reliable man, but it's unseemly for you to live here without a female companion."

"Yes, dear, I know, but I have my housekeeper, Jandira. She will sleep here in one of the rooms downstairs, within hearing of the bell on my bedside table. Her boys are grown so she is no longer needed at home."

"She's a good woman, no doubt, but a slave and black. You must have a companion of your own race."

"Don't worry, Juan, we've discussed this before, and you know I'm prepared to take care of myself."

Juan rises, stretches, yawns, takes off his white nightgown and pulls on his trousers. Noemia pours fresh water into the porcelain basin for him to wash, and lays his starched white shirt on the bed. She lights an oil lamp for him to trim his black beard. He picks up his scissors and studies his reflection in the ornate mirror on the wall.

He turns. "Noemia, I've made up my mind to take young Bentinho with me, to bring back the mules after I cross the bridge to my new home."

"Isn't he a bit young to be your sole companion?"

"He's young, and that's why I chose him. Any of the grown men might be tempted to murder me while I sleep in the mountains. He's the best of the boys, and besides, he's so devoted to his mother he'll be sure to return."

"You're right. My godson, Bentinho, has both good sense and courage. And he would never hurt man or beast. Do you need anything else before I go downstairs?"

"No, dear, thank you. I'll put on my riding boots myself."

Noemia lights a three-pronged silver candlestick and hurries down the wooden stairs and across the hall to the kitchen. Her household slaves arrive each day before dawn.

Behind the great house, the red rooster stretches his long, thin neck and crows. He shakes his yellow comb and settles on his perch in the avocado tree. His small birdbrain knows light will come soon. He has summoned it. From perches in small pens outside the little mud homes on the farm a few scrawny, inferior creatures hail each other through the pre-dawn mist rising from the river.

Chapter 1
The Great Slave Owner's Farm

 In a world without timepieces, the cockcrow drove wives and mothers from their narrow beds to their cooking fires. The whole countryside woke early, but slave wives and mothers had double tasks to perform before going out to their duties in orchards or fields. The way things were and always would be. They stirred the banked embers from last night's supper, and thrust dried grasses and corn sheaves into the glowing coals. Small iron pots boiled within minutes.

They called the men, who scrambled to their feet and ran to relieve themselves under the banana trees. After splashing water on their faces, they grabbed a cup of hot coffee from the back of the stove and hurried--all slaves must be at their work posts before the overseers arrived. They ran, carrying a small lunch, plus a bag of cornmeal bread, if they were lucky, wrapped in clean, knotted cloths. Some men and boys went to the cane fields, others to the coffee trees, and a few younger boys to the stables. Slave labor allowed the farm to be rich and self-supporting.

The women tossed corn and scraps to their chickens, banked fires and ran to their allotted tasks, carrying babies and toddlers with them. The overseers would arrive at first light. A few women had daughters who stayed home, minding younger children and stoked the fire again in the late afternoon. When the girls reached nine or ten they were forced to work alongside their mothers.

* * * *

In a small room off the kitchen in the great house, ten white men sat down to a breakfast of cheese, fruit, cakes, bread and butter, and mugs of hot coffee. Their straw hats and knotted whips lay on the sideboard.

"How I look forward to Sunday," said one.

"I hope I'll be let off the sugar cane today. It's hot in those fields and much better to sit and watch the slaves in the shade under the coffee trees. I set one man on each row, so I only have to check now and again, and if anyone's slow, I bring my whip down on his back."

"Good idea, I'll do the same on my allotted rows."

In the dining room Henrique, the administrator, sat with his employer at the large carved table enjoying a similar repast.

"Have you any special orders for the day?" Henrique asked.

"No, not today, just be sure the men finish the work under the coffee trees. I want more men free for the sugar cane."

Noemia smiled at the administrator. "Would you like more of that guava jelly with your bread?"

"It's delicious, yes, I'd like more and another cup of coffee."

"Izabel, bring some jelly for Senhor Henrique."

Izabel, plump and pretty in her starched white uniform, hurried to the kitchen. Henrique watched her. Noemia is too protective of her house servants. She is a darling but a dreamer who claims Izabel is a married woman. Slaves mate, they don't marry.

"My dear, sit down with us and have a cup of coffee," said Juan.

Smiling, Noemia obeyed and sat opposite Henrique. He must not guess yet what was going to happen.

* * * *

While the day's work began around the big house on the great slave owner's farm, a team of slaves squatted and sharpened their hoes, waiting for the signal to begin work between the rows of sugar cane. They drank lukewarm coffee from gourds slung over their shoulders.

"Father Andre told me yesterday," one said, "that slaves in the big cities are revolting so it won't be long before we are all free."

"Who can believe that?" said one old man. They laughed. The slaves relished this precious moment in the day while they waited for daylight and the arrival of the overseers; the only time they could talk without supervision. A small boy stood guard serving as a lookout in the path leading from the house. He would whistle when he spotted the overseers. The signal meant "On your feet, slaves. Grab your tools, stand by and look sharp!"

Slave women gathered by the marsh. At dawn, they would hitch up their wide skirts, and when they saw the drivers coming would wade into the shallow water to begin cutting the long, fragrant grasses for thatch and straw mats. The sticky mud made it difficult to keep a straight course in the marsh.

Some women nursed babies. Little girls as young as three waited to take the infants from their mothers as soon as the overseers appeared and work began. They cuddled them when they cried and gave them rags soaked in sugar cane juice to chew on when they were hungry.

Little boys had freedom to play and go fishing but their liberty would end as soon as the administrator gauged their ability to work.

* * * *

When dawn broke, the stable boy, Bento, called his assistants. Stripped to the waist, ribcages showing, they raked and swept the horseboxes, tossed the soiled hay and steaming droppings onto a heap outside the stable door, and filled the feed troughs. They led their charges from the horseboxes to the paddock to drink from a clear stream. The animals whinnied and stamped, and the boys shouted with glee, mounted horses bareback and raced round the paddock. Horses without riders raced them. Both animals and children enjoyed their liberty in the morning sunshine. This glorious moment over, the boys whistled and sang as they took feed beyond the paddock for the mules. They watched with amusement as the animals ran to them from the pasture, snorted, and shoved each other for a share of corn husks and hay.

Although he was only fifteen, Bento was acknowledged as the leader in the stables. The overseers left the boys to themselves. Working with Bento was so much fun they didn't require supervision. Bento worked alongside the boys, yet was in a position of respect and responsibility.

* * * *

At sunup the overseers left the kitchen and waited for orders. Henrique strode out the side door and hurried around the porch to join them, the day's work plan in his hands. But squeaking on its iron hinges, the double front door swung open and Juan Caiara strode out, his step heavy and firm, his black eyes flashing.

"Call Bentinho, the stable boy," he shouted.

A slender child, in a bright red jacket, with sparkling eyes and nimble feet, flew to carry out the order. Henrique and the overseers froze in their tracks. They waited to learn what was behind this unusual summons.

Bento came on the run. His thoughts flew with him. Does he want his carriage, or his Arab steed to gallop around the farm? I'm ready for a change.

Instead, Caiara ordered, "Bentinho, saddle two mules. Get provisions for a long journey. Change into clean clothes and hurry back. Don't ask any questions."

Bento ran.

Juan turned to the overseers. "Summon all the slaves."

Sinho Caiara climbed to the terrace and stood at the top of the stairs, tall and handsome in his normal finery. A dozen minions rushed to do his bidding, and he began to pace back and forth on the broad porch.

Their employer's behaviour had grown strange lately, and it reassured the slave drivers to see him up early and calling for the slaves in his wonted voice. They hurried to summon the workers.

The slaves, men and women, put down hoes and sickles and stumbled ahead of men with whips. They assembled in the yard, trembling. These early morning summons usually preceded some kind of drastic punishment.

"What's going on?"

Another whispered, "He's been walking about staring at the ground and look at him now."

"Do you suppose he's been ill and has recovered his strength and cruel whims?"

"Silence! Your master will have you all whipped."

Caiara turned to Henrique. "Are all here?"

"Even babes in arms," said the administrator.

Caiara raised a gloved hand. "Wait here until I give you leave to go."

He turned his back on the assembly and marched back into the house. His wife--slight stature, long hair tied with a bright blue ribbon at the nape of her neck--appeared at the top of the stairs in a sprigged, wide-skirted cotton dress. She smiled at the assembled company. The slaves loved the woman who had done her best, for many years, to protect them from her husband's cruelty. His one redeeming quality, they agreed, was his love for his beautiful wife.

Noemia turned to Jandira, Bento's mother. "Hurry home to help your son. See that he takes a cloak. It will be cold in the mountains. Don't worry about food. My husband will take the rations for two that you have prepared in the kitchen."

Jandira sped to the stables. She smiled when she heard her son giving orders.

"Grab Pitoco for me, Lourenço. Pepo, get Teimoso saddled. I've got to get them ready for Sinho Caiara."

"Sinho Caiara wants two mules. Sinho Caiara wants two mules," the boys chanted.

"He wants me too. God knows what for. Get on with the job, don't ask any questions."

He spotted his brother Simon. "Oh, Simon, did they let you come to help? Could you ask old Felício to get the supplies for the mules? I must be quick."

Jandira ran to her sons.

"Mother, do you know anything about this? Has Sinha Noemia told you anything?"

"Bentinho, it's a complete surprise to me. But I think Sinho Caiara chose you because you're the only slave he knows by name. Or maybe because he's sure you can keep the mules under control. Come. Let me help you get ready."

They hurried home. Bento slipped into his clean clothes, thrust his broken knife into its scabbard, and tucked it under his belt.

I must not let Mother know, but something about this adventure puzzles me. How will I be able to go off into the unknown with Sinho Caiara? He scares the life out of me, and I'll be alone with him. St. Benedict, hear me. Give me strength.

"Son, Senhora Noemia said you must take a cloak. It can be very cold in the mountains. Here's your dad's heavy cloak. You can put it under the saddle when the sun's high. And now, have a mug of hot coffee before you go."

She gave the youngster a warm hug and ran back to the great house, lest he see her tears.

Mother, when shall I see you again? And my brothers? Come on, you're not a baby, Bento. Get the mules and go.

The slaves squatted in the yard and waited. They crossed themselves and prayed. He always went out in his splendid carriage. Now here he was, in his travelling costume: close-fitting breeches, black velvet coat, white cravat, tall black boots, shining silver spurs, broad-rimmed black hat; his pistol in its holster. And he was about to go away on mule back! It didn't make sense, with his only companion the skinny teenager Bentinho. An expectant hush followed. Whatever happened, this was an event to remember.

 THE BOY AND THE WARRIOR
by Julia Macdonell

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