Chapter 9: Chiefs in Disgrace
“A slave chain? How do you know?” asked Sebastian.
“The wind brings the smell of horses and unwashed men and gunpowder,” Arazunú replied. “And the sound of chains. I once traveled in one. Do you doubt me?”
Sebastian neither heard nor smelled any traces of unusual activity, but he had learned to trust his jungle-wise companion.
Arazunú gave Yagua a short command in Guarani, but the dog looked at Sebastian for confirmation.
“What do you know,” said Sebastian. “He’s starting to respect me!”
“There are men in danger, and you’re happy about an animal respecting you?”
Sebastian’s cheeks colored. “Let’s just go. They’re getting closer. Even I can hear them now.”
“It’s better if I go and you stay with the animals. Your feet are not as padded as the jaguar’s.”
It was a nice way of saying that Sebastian walked like a water buffalo, and it was true. Sebastian would not be able to sneak up on anyone, no matter how hard he tried.
Arazunú was there and back again in a matter of minutes. “It is a slave chain, many men, and four of your people, carrying pistols and rifles. They will close the distance between us very soon.”
“My people? Do you mean Spaniards or Portuguese?”
“How should I know? You all look the same to me.” Arazunú reached out and touched Sebastian’s bright red hair. “Well, except for you. You’re the only one I’ve seen with fire on his head.”
Ducking the Indian’s hand, Sebastian said, “So what do you want to do? Four men with guns will be hard to avoid. Besides, it’s not like our animals are invisible. We can’t hide them forever.”
“Do you have a plan?”
“Nope. And there doesn’t seem time for one, either. Let’s just see what happens.” He gestured to Yagua and then mounted his stallion. They set out at a brisk pace straight toward the slave traders.
Without seeing them, Sebastian knew what kind of men the slave traders would be: a group of battle-hardened men, probably ex-soldiers, who carried nothing with them except their rifles, extra ammunition, and whatever would fit in their saddlebags. They hunted their own food wherever they went, whether it be jungle, forest, or steppe. They could go for days without eating or drinking or sleeping; their goal in life was to get as rich as possible and they did not care who they hurt – or killed – to reach that goal.
Sebastian would have to be very careful.
The would-be slaves were chained together by a long iron chain that passed through their ankle fetters. At first, Sebastian just saw a bunch of Indians, but when he looked closer, he saw that each man was from a different tribe. Some wore furs, some wore skins. Others wore feathers or woven grass garments. Some had long hair, shaved in certain spots, and others had hair cut in a bowl shape. They all had something in common, aside from their wrist and ankle chains: they all wore an air of command and carried themselves with the distinctive confidence of kings. Each of them was obviously an important man to his own people.
One of the chiefs caught his Sebastian’s attention. He looked similar to all the others, except that his lower lip was pierced and he wore a labret. Also, his skin was very white. It was even whiter than a newborn baby’s skin. At first, Sebastian thought he might be a Spaniard who was posing as a slave, or who had taken control of an Indian village. But the chief’s dark slanted eyes, flat nose and thickly muscled neck were too similar to the other chiefs in the line.
“Hey, there!” Sebastian shouted in Portuguese to the slave traders. “There you are. You’re late.”
Confused, the slave traders called their party to a halt. The chiefs barely glanced at Sebastian; to them, he was just another European enemy.
“Who are you?” called the man with the shaggy brown beard. His words were also Portuguese.
Sebastian was glad he had guessed correctly on the language. His heart beat wildly as he thought of more guesses to fool the traders with.
“I’m from the Blue Sparrow,” he replied, continuing to ride toward them with confidence. “You’re late.”
“Do we know you? What do you mean, we’re late?”
When he was close enough to make out the designs of their tattoos, Sebastian stopped his stallion. “Captain Mendoza didn’t want to wait any longer. He’ll take whatever you have right now. I guess he has a hot buyer or something. I don’t know, and I don’t care.”
The Portuguese men were stunned. They turned to each other, forming a tight little huddle, and spoke in quiet, angry voices. Finally, the bearded one turned around again. “He told us to get twenty! These first nine were easy enough to get, but we’ve been out here for months trying to get the last eleven. If he wants just ten, he’s going to have to pay us for all twenty!”
“He said you’d say that,” Sebastian nodded, relieved that his second guess had hit the target. “And he sends you a gift to ease your feelings.” He whistled to Arazunú, who walked forward leading the mare and the other animals.
The slave traders eyed the animals greedily. “They’re awfully skinny,” the bearded one said, although he licked his lips when he saw the chickens.
Sebastian knew what they were thinking. “They’re not all for you, just a few pigs. I have to take the rest of them upriver. I’m supposed to meet Perez and Sanchez and give them the rest. And,” he held up his hand to stop their next thoughts, “if Perez and Sanchez return without having received them, and Captain Mendoza finds out that you kept more than your share, he said to tell you that he’ll never use your services again. I don’t say that as a threat, boys, just passing along what the Captain said.” His mouth went dry from his own bold words but he tried to not swallow.
“Isn’t that just like him,” one of them said. “Guess a fellow’s darkest intentions and keep him from acting them out.”
“Well, I say a few pigs is more than we’ve got. Let’s take them and go,” said another.
The bearded one held up his hand. “Payment first, not gifts. How many pigs do we get for our trouble, and where’s my money? I want to be paid for twenty chiefs, not ten.”
“Sure. Let me go get the purse.” Sebastian laid the reins across the stallion’s neck to make him turn around and then rode back to Arazunú.
When he was out of the slave trader’s earshot, he whispered, “They’re willing to sell the slaves!”
“All of them?”
“I think so. I told them our pirate friends sent us to collect them.”
“But, Sebastian… what will you pay with? I already used your silver to free my father. You have less than half left. You can only buy two men with that, three at most.”
“I don’t know… Are they watching us?”
“Like a jaguar watches a tapir.”
“I need to think. Take them our two largest pigs. Walk slowly, okay? I need some time.”
Sebastian dismounted and made a good show of searching the mare’s saddlebags. To the slave traders, it appeared that he was looking for their silver. He hoped they did not guess his bluff.
His fingers struck a soft bundle. Sebastian yanked his hand back as if he had been bitten by a viper.
It was his mother’s matched necklace set – and it was worth a small fortune. With the necklace alone, he could buy twenty slaves plus a few horses, outfits of clothing, tools and all the materials needed to build a new house. The set had been in his family for five generations, and by rights it belonged to Sebastian’s future wife.
Could he sell it? Could he bring himself to part with the one tangible reminder of his mother? Hidden behind the mare, he held it to his chest. No, not the necklace. Something else, maybe.
But there was nothing else. In his haste and practicality, Sebastian had left everything else back in the pirate’s cove. The only thing having any value was that necklace set.
Maybe the earrings, bracelet, and ring. Their collective value equaled the necklace.
He could not d
o it.
Arazunú returned. “They’re not happy with two pigs. They want at least two more.”
Sebastian said nothing. His fist closed on the jewelry.
The sun glinted off the gold, catching Arazunú’s eye. Sebastian had shown him the jewelry several times before, often speaking of his mother when he did so. “Are you going to use that for trade?”
“No,” Sebastian said, knuckles growing white as he clutched at them more tightly. Suddenly he grew angry. “Look, why do we have to save every Indian we come across? It’s not my job! I just want to get go Asunción with the rest of my stuff. And in case you haven’t noticed, I don’t have much left!”
Puzzled, Arazunú said, “Isn’t saving lives better than saving things?”
Sebastian spit on the ground. “Do you personally know all the men there?”
“Of course not.”
“Are they friends of Asunción?”
“Some, yes. One of them is from a Guarani tribe, the other Guayuki. The others are Payagua, Guaycuru, Mbaya, Abipon, Mocobi and Chiriguano. I don’t recognize the other two.”
“Those names - why do you say them in such a tight voice?”
Arazunú clenched his fist. “They are from further north of Asunción.”
Sebastian could tell that his friend was withholding information. “And that’s important because… ?”
“Because they are strong enemies of Asunción.”
“Ah.” Sebastian folded his arms. “Then why is it so important? Saving your father – that’s all fine and dandy, but these are strangers we’re talking about. And didn’t you once tell me that the Guayuki are ka’ayagua? Forest people? I thought your tribes hated each other.”
“True. Our peoples fight whenever they meet.”
“I’m waiting for a good reason,” Sebastian growled. “Convince me to give up my mother’s only jewelry.”
“Because slavery is wrong. Your book says so. I was a slave, for a time, and every day I wanted to die.”
Guilt ripped through Sebastian’s gut. Of course slavery was wrong – but selling his mother’s jewelry also felt wrong. Not only that, but Sebastian would not even profit from the trade. Yet it was Sebastian who had taught Arazunú to read, and what did he read? The Sublimis Deus – the Pope’s book against slavery!
Bitter at being forced into making such a difficult decision, Sebastian roughly shoved his way past Arazunú and mounted the stallion.
He trotted back to the slave traders. Defiance in his eyes, he threw his precious bundle at them.
The bearded one caught it and peered inside. His eyes grew greedy as he saw the treasure inside. He tried to hide it, however, and said, “That’s all? We were expecting gold.”
“That is gold,” hissed Sebastian. Anger gave him the edge he needed to intimidate the slave traders. “Captain Mendoza said that if you asked for any more, to give you this.” He withdrew his pistol and aimed it at the bearded one. He cocked the trigger. His eyes flashed with deadly intent.
The four Portuguese men took a step back.
The bearded one began to laugh. “Son, when you first claimed to be from the Blue Sparrow, I doubted you. How could one so young be trusted out here, alone?” He pulled the key from his pocket. After tossing it to Sebastian, he bowed. “You have my loyalties, boy, when you’re the next captain of the Sparrow. Give my regards to the Captain.”
Sebastian did not lower the pistol. “He sends his regards as well.”
“I see no reason to stay here, then,” said the bearded one. His men agreed, claiming they could not wait to get to the nearest fort, and wouldn’t pig be a nice change in diet.
They mounted their horses and rode away. In the distance, Sebastian could hear them bickering about their shares in the jewelry.
It made him sick.
To keep himself from crying, as his heart desperately wanted to do, he dismounted and walked over to the line of chiefs.
Some of them stood; others squatted. All of them watched, suspicious, with hatred in their eyes.
Sebastian opened his arms to them, palms up, key in one hand. “I apologize if those men treated you badly in any way,” he said, gulping to see bruises and open wounds on several of them. “I am Sebastian Segovia of Spain, soon to be of Asunción. Take your freedom. I ask nothing in return.” He turned to Arazunú, who had joined him when the slave traders left, and waited for the translation.
Arazunú had always told Sebastian that most of the tribes he came across spoke the same language, but in a different dialect. It seemed that he had been telling the truth. All ten chiefs seemed to understand what he was saying. When Arazunú had finished, he gave the first chief the key.
All of them, without exception, stared at Sebastian as if it were a trick.
One of them spoke.
Arazunú answered, then turned to Sebastian. “They want to know why you did this.”
What he wanted to say was, Because you made me feel guilty. What he said was, “My people do not agree with the Portuguese slave policy. We feel that the native peoples who live here should be treated well.”
Translating, Arazunú added a few words of his own while the chiefs removed their chains. “The fire-head gave a great deal to give you your freedom. He paid with his mother’s bride-gift.”
To most of the chiefs, a bride-gift was sacred; they immediately understood the depth of Sebastian’s sacrifice.
The Payagua chief, however, grew angrier and angrier as Arazunú and Sebastian spoke. “He enslaves our people and kills us with strange diseases and takes our property! You expect us to be friends now, just because he gave away his mother’s bride-price?”
Arazunú tried to explain the differences between Portuguese and Spaniards.
But as soon as his chains were free, the Payagua chief lunged at Sebastian. With his bare hands, he began to strangle the boy.
Shock and chaos reined for a few seconds, and then Arazunú helped the white chief and the Guarani chief pull the first chief off Sebastian, who was literally turning purple.
While they were fighting, yet another chief – the Mbaya - snatched Sebastian’s pistol from him and aimed it at the Guarani chief, shouting. The weapon discharged in a cloud of smoke, knocking the Mbaya man backward.
The Guarani chief fell over, clutching his chest. Blood spurted high. Then he was dead.
The other Indians ran away, including the Payagua chief who had started it all.
Arazunú wrested the pistol away from the Mbaya chief and pointed it at his head. “Return to your people! We are not your enemies!”
The Mbaya chief stood up and spat at Arazunú’s feet, then turned and fled.
Once, Sebastian’s father had written a letter about how natives in the Chaco could run as fast as horses. Sebastian thought his father was exaggerating. Now he saw with his own eyes that it was indeed the truth. No wonder they were so feared in Asunción.
One chief remained – the white one Sebastian had wondered about. He held out his hand to Sebastian, who still lay gasping for breath. “I am Chachugi of the Guayuki,” he said in his own language.
Sebastian understood the intent. “Sebastian of Asunción,” he grunted and let Chachugi pull him to his feet.
All three of them looked at the body of the dead chief.
“Did you know him?” asked Sebastian.
“We were cousins,” Arazunú replied.
Sebastian had learned enough to know that all Guarani considered themselves related in some form or another. Even though Arazunú had never known this chief, he would mourn for him.
Without words, the three of them buried the body quickly, partly because the slave traders might have heard the discharged weapon and decided to come back, and partly because blood in any part of the jungle had a way of attracting predators.
Chachugi and Arazunú seemed very tense around each other. They reminded Sebastian of two dogs about to fight over the same bone.
The younger Indian made some gestures which app
eared to Sebastian to be non-threatening and apologetic. Though he did not understand the words Arazunú was saying, he reckoned that it was a call for a truce, at least a temporary one. The Guayuki chief relaxed – not by much – and conceded to talk to his enemy.
They spoke for a short time and then Arazunú turned to Sebastian. “He invites us to his village, which is not far from here. It is on the same path as ours and will bring us closer to Asunción if we follow him. He wants to prepare a celebration of thanks for what you have done.”
Sebastian was hesitant. The last time he had been in an Indian village for a celebration, he almost became the main course.
“He says that his people know Irala and are on friendly terms. It seems that both our tribes look to your people for protection against the tribes in the Chaco. Also, his people and mine have had relations in the past, although we do not trade with each other now. We’ll be safe in his village.”
Sebastian was reminded of the saying The enemy of my enemy is my friend and wondered how strong that friendship would be. He hesitated. “What about the animals?”
“They will not be hunted.”
Chachugi spoke again.
“He says that you may need help crossing the great river, with the rainy season here.”
“River? What river? I thought we just followed the Río de la Plata all the way up to Asunción.”
“No. This river turns sharply to the east when it meets the Paraguay. I myself have seen it once before, the two rivers joining as one. We will need his help.”
Not happy with this latest bit of news, Sebastian frowned. Still, he could find no reason to refuse the invitation.
“You’re sure we’ll be safe with him?”
“He has given his word.”
To Sebastian, someone’s word meant very little anymore, especially when men like Rodrigo and Santino and Mendoza gave theirs. But the way Arazunú said it convinced him.
“Very well. What are we waiting for?”