A Matter of Souls (17 page)

“Daughter,” he said, taking a deep breath, “we are breaking out.”

He revved the motor and put the car into drive, screeching left past the sign that read
Pineville, 49 miles.

With her heart thumpety-thumping again, Pamela Ann sat back to enjoy the ride.

O
ur Father, who art in heaven …” Don Joachim Rodrigo was a very pious man. His nervous fingers rolled against the worn wooden rosary that he used for everyday prayer. He was a spiritual man. He attended Mass at the old church every morning in order to start his day in the proper frame of mind. He ran his household with fatherly compassion and was known as a most scrupulous businessman. That is why, finding himself aboard a sea vessel weighted down with humanity, Don Joachim Rodrigo found himself terribly ill at ease.

He shuddered at the possibility of his beloved wife discovering his true whereabouts, for she, beyond any doubt, was a good and just woman.

“Hallowed be Thy name … I am lower than the serpent!” His lips twisted the words of the familiar adoration. He tightened his grip on the bead and stared out across the
white foam whipping up pointy tips on the rolling green ocean. His stomach began to churn along with the waters. But Don Joachim knew that his misery was superficial. Even as he felt his muscles tighten in sudden spasm, he knew that below him—only a few feet beneath his calfskin boots—were creatures in deep and true pain.

“Thy will be done …” Don Joachim tried to shut his ears against the low moans issuing up from the hold. “Forgive us our debts …” He could not go on. His hands shook so that the rosary clattered to the deck. He stooped to recover them, and a sturdy wind lifted the putrid smell up through the wooden planks. Don Joachim's fifty-five-year-old knees buckled. He smelled sweat and tears, and waste and fear.

“Christ, mate! Hold it together, then!” A rough hand jerked Don Joachim up and shoved him inside his cabin. The tight, airless space served only to trap the odors surging through his nostrils and into his brain. The sailor slammed the door, leaving Don Joachim slumped against the swaying wall.

Everything had begun, truly innocently, one month ago. It had only been a matter of business! At that time, Don Joachim was satisfied in his prosperity. He found joy in his only daughter, Rosalinda. And he took pleasure in the promise of his sons, Claudio, Benito, and Manolo. Indeed,
his greatest pleasure was in his eldest, Manolo. The one who counted before he could walk. The one who had learned to bargain with his brothers for their sweets. The one who slept all night in the warehouse on one occasion simply because he liked the stacks of cargo.

It was Manolo who had persuaded Don Joachim to take to the sea again for “a matter of good business.” Manolo had leaned his impeccable linen sleeves across Don Joachim's document-strewn table and said, “Father, the New World is still open to those who will take a risk!” Manolo's sea-blue eyes glistened with excitement. He stepped back and smiled, letting his long hands fall open against the sturdy leather of his riding trousers.

In the six years that he had worked for his father, Manolo had developed an excellent reputation for spotting new and lucrative business opportunities. In that fact, Don Joachim could see a bit of himself long ago, hungry for a chance to prove that he could succeed. He had. Don Joachim's efforts had even surpassed his own father's, who was of noble birth but had been content to live off the income from his lands.

Young Joachim had wanderlust. He had followed a family friend to the East and found wonder and fortune there. Joachim Rodrigo became a true man of the world, embracing new languages and building a respect for cultures and habits strange to him. He used the inheritance from his father to first buy silks and rugs, then exotic hides and gleaming ivories. Some he sold right off the boat, in his
province. Others he loaded again onto ships headed for the isles of the north.

In time, he sailed himself to England and France and traveled even as far as Vienna to meet his best customers, to see firsthand the luxurious robes and fine carvings they'd made from his skins and bones. The early years had been hard on Filomena. Yet she remained loyal and waited to become his wife, waited to bear and raise his children.

Now they could reap the rewards of Don Joachim's diligence, of Filomena's nights alone. He could enjoy his entire family's company often, and in leisure, while Manolo looked after their future prosperity.

Don Joachim had enthusiastically agreed with his son's proposal to test the venture beginning even farther away than Persia.

“Azúcar,” Manolo had let the word roll from his tongue. Sugar plantations, he said, would spread across the lands of the New World. Someone must own them. Someone must pay the managers and overseers. Someone must transport the bounteous results of the investment back to civilization. That someone must, of course, be knowledgeable of the business world. Manolo had convinced Don Joachim. They would extend their dealings to Benezvela.

Manolo had planned it; Manolo had researched everything. He had so looked forward to this first trip to the new
continent! And now a last-minute conflict over an important shipment in the Port of Cadis had interfered. Manolo would have to attend to that.

Don Joachim had decided this was the doorway to his retirement. He would make this one last and long journey to bless Manolo's rise to full partner in the family business. He would finalize the deal, perhaps by going further than expected and purchasing one of these plantations fully. Don Joachim was capable of looking both backward and forward at the same time. Manolo would have, must have a future on his own terms. He had chosen his way.

“Tell me,” Joachim Rodrigo had said, “How do they keep the cost of the labor so very low?”

Manolo was hurrying into his traveling cloak with one eye on the groom and waiting horses as he thrust the contracts into his father's arms. Manolo looked to his father, flushed with momentary anxiety over all that lay on his shoulders. When their eyes met, however, he was immediately calmed by Joachim Rodrigo's reassuring smile. He hugged his father tightly, quickly. His shoulders relaxed. He opened the door with a bounce in his step. Over one broad shoulder he said, “Slaves, Father. My contact says relying on the native labor will not at all suffice. Everything is there in my notes—I must go!” The heavy door shut between them.

Slaves. It was not Don Joachim's first uneasiness with the practice.

Though he had developed a specialty in his business,
he knew that a successful man must be ever aware of current affairs, of happenings near and far. So he often shared wine and stories with many kinds of men, young and old. He knew the Portuguese were literally carving their way into the jungles of Brasil, establishing gold mines to the envy of their Spanish competitors. Joachim Rodrigo's fellow Spaniards were pushing themselves into neighboring Benezvela, boldly clearing and planting these vast plantations. Jealousy fueled the dueling nations. Unexpectedly, Spain had found a way to gain the upper hand.

Benezvelan natives, unused to the brutality of toiling a crop such as sugar, proved useless. Don Joachim's enterprising countrymen discovered that Black Africans filled the void. They could survive, even thrive in the jungle harshness.

Slaves.

Joachim Rodrigo had never seen a Moor up close. In the markets of Persia, he had seen from a distance the strapping bodies towering over the crowds, like shadows moving at will. But these had been merchants too, bargaining in many of the same languages Don Joachim himself employed in his trade. Surely, a man who could support himself thus would never fall into such a state as bondage!

And yet, in taverns and drawing rooms alike, any New World conversation seemed to turn on a different type of Negro than those Joachim Rodrigo had glimpsed. It was said that these were savage, bestial creatures from the innermost regions of the Dark Continent. Unlike the clever
yellow men of the East and apparently different from the natives of the New World, these creatures were said to be unworthy of comparison with a White man from any walk of life.

The talk buzzed around and inside Don Joachim's head for a time, then hid itself from his daily routines—why would it be otherwise?—until he heard the Word read in a quavering voice by the old Padre.

…
Bring back my sons from

afar, and my daughters

from the ends of the earth:

everyone who is named as

mine, whom I created for my

glory, whom I formed

and made…

Don Joachim Rodrigo could recall no instance in his boyhood lessons from priests and brothers in which it was revealed that God had created man, woman, and slave.