Captains of the Sands (3 page)
LETTER FROM THE JUVENILE JUDGE TO
THE EDITOR OF THE
JORNAL DA TARDE
Editor of the
Jornal da Tarde
City of Salvador
State
M
Y DEAR SIR:
In one of the rare moments of leisure left me by the multiple and various worries of my thorny position as I thumbed
through your excellent evening paper I came across a letter from the tireless Chief of Police of the State in which he spoke about the reasons for the Police’s being unable up till now to intensify their meritorious campaign against the juvenile delinquents who infest our city. The Chief of Police justifies himself by declaring that he had no orders from the juvenile judge for actions against juvenile delinquency. Not wishing in any way to blame the brilliant and tireless Chief of Police, I am obliged, in the name of truth (the same truth that I hold high as the beacon that lights the path of my life with its pure beam), to declare that the excuse does not hold. It does not hold, sir, because it is not up to the juvenile judge to pursue and apprehend juvenile delinquents, but rather to name the place where they must undergo punishment, appoint a guardian to follow whatever changes are brought against them, etc.… It is not the role of the juvenile judge to apprehend juvenile delinquents. It is his role to watch over their subsequent fate. And the Chief of Police will always find me where duty calls me, because never in 50 years of unsullied life have I neglected to fulfill it.
Only most recently have I sent several minors, delinquent or abandoned, to the Reformatory for Minors. I am not to blame, however, if they run away, if they are not impressed with the example of work they find in that educational establishment, and if, through escape, they abandon an environment where they breathe an atmosphere of peace and work and where they are treated with the greatest affection. They run away and they become even more perverse, as if the example they had received was evil and harmful. Why? That is a problem to be solved by psychologists and not by me, a simple amateur in philosophy.
What I want to make crystal clear, sir, is that the Chief of Police can count on the best help from this magistracy of minors to intensify the campaign against juvenile delinquents.
Yours most sincerely,
Juvenile Judge
(Published in the
Jornal da Tarde
with a picture of the juvenile judge in a column along with a small commentary of praise.)
LETTER FROM A MOTHER, A SEAMSTRESS, TO THE EDITOR OF THE
JORNAL DA TARDE
D
EAR SIR:
Pleaze excuse the mistakes becauze I am not acustomed to this bizness of writing and if I write to you today its to dot a couple of eyes. I saw an article in the paper about the “Captains of the Sands” and then the police come and say they was going to chase them and then the children’s doctors talking about it being too bad they didnt straiten out in the reform school where he sent the poor things. Its to talk about the reformatory that Im writing these poor lines. I wanted your paper to send omebody to take a look at that reformatory and see how they treat poor peoples children who have the bad luck to fall into the hands of those heartless guards. My son Alonso had six months there and if I hadnt been able to get him out of that hellhole I dont know if the poor boy would have lived six months. The least that happens to peoples kids is that they beat them two or three times a day. The director is dead drunk all the time and likes to hear the whip sing a song on the backs of poor peoples kids. I saw that a lot of times becauze they dont stop for people and said it was to make an example. That was why I got my son out of there. If your paper could send somebody there secret theyd see what food they eat, the slave labor they have to do, that not even a strong man can take, and the beatings they get. But it has to be secret becauze if they find out everything will be fine. Drop by all of a sudden and youll see Im right. Thats why there are “Captains of the Sands.” Id rather see my son among them than in the reformatory. If you want to see something to break your heart go there. You also might want to talk to Father José Pedro who was chaplain there and saw all of it. He could tell it and with better words I havent got.
Maria Ricardina, seamstress
(Published on the fifth page of the
Jornal da Tarde
, among advertisements, with no pictures or commentary.)
LETTER FROM FATHER JOSÉ PEDRO TO THE EDITOR OF THE
JORNAL DA TARDE
Editor of the
Jornal da Tarde
G
REETINGS IN CHRIST:
Having read in your excellent newspaper the letter by Maria Ricardina, who called on me as a person who could clarify what life is like for children kept in the Children’s Reformatory, I am obliged to come out of the obscurity in which I live to come to tell you that unfortunately Maria Ricardina is right. The children in the aforementioned reformatory are treated like animals, that is the truth. They have forgotten the lesson of the gentle Master, sir, and instead of winning over the children with good treatment, they make them even more rebellious with continuous beatings and truly inhuman physical punishment. I have gone there to bring the children the consolation of religion and found them little disposed to accept it, due, naturally, to the hatred they are storing up in those hearts so worthy of charity. What I have seen, sir, would fill a volume.
Thank you for your attention.
Your servant in Christ,
Father José Pedro
(Letter published on the third page of the
Jornal da Tarde
, under the heading: “Can It Be True?” and with no commentary.)
LETTER FROM THE DIRECTOR OF THE REFORMATORY TO THE EDITOR OF THE
JORNAL DA TARDE
D
EAR SIR:
I have been following with great interest the campaign that your excellent Bahian newspaper, which you edit with such clear intelligence, has been conducting against the fearsome crimes of the “Captains of the Sands,” a gang of delinquents who terrorize the city and stop it from living in peace.
That was how I came to read two letters of accusation against the establishment I direct and which modesty (and only modesty, sir) prevents me from calling model.
As for the letter from a little woman of the people, I shall not bother with it, it doesn’t merit a reply from me. She is doubtless one of the many who come here and want to stop the Reformatory from fulfilling its sacred mission of educating their sons. They rear them in the street, always on a spree, and since here they are submitted to an exemplary life, they are the first to complain when they should be kissing the hands of those who are turning their sons into good men. First they come to ask for a place for their children. Then they miss them, miss the products of the thefts they bring home, and then they come and complain against the Reformatory. But as I have already said, sir, that letter doesn’t bother me. A woman of the people isn’t going to understand the work I am doing as head of this establishment.
What saddened me, sir, was the letter from Father José Pedro. This priest, forgetting the functions of his calling, threw out grave accusations at the establishment. This priest (whom I shall call a priest of the devil, if you will permit me a little sarcasm, sir) abused his function by coming into our educational establishment at hours prohibited by the rules and I must raise a serious complaint against him: he has incited the minors put under my charge by the State to revolt, to disobey. Ever since he crossed the threshold of this establishment, the cases of rebellion and rule-breaking have increased. This priest is nothing but an instigator of the general bad character of the minors under my care. And that is why I am going to close the doors of this house of education to him.
Nevertheless, sir, picking up the words of the seamstress who wrote to your paper, I am the one who invites you to send a reporter to the Reformatory. I make a point of this. In that way we and the public too will know for certain and in truth the way in which minors are treated as they are regenerated by the Bahian Reformatory for Juvenile Delinquents and Abandoned Boys. I expect your reporter next Monday. And if I don’t say that he can come whenever he likes, it is because visits must be
made on the days authorized by the rules, and it is my custom always to obey the rules. This is the only reason I invite your reporter for Monday. I will be most gratified if you print this. In this way the false vicar of Christ will be confounded.
Your thankful admirer,
Director of the Bahian Reformatory for Juvenile Delinquents and Abandoned Boys
(Published on the third page of the
Jornal da Tarde
with a photograph of the Reformatory and an item advising that on Monday next a reporter of the
Jornal da Tarde
will visit the Reformatory.)
A MODEL ESTABLISHMENT WHERE PEACE AND WORK REIGN—A DIRECTOR WHO IS A FRIEND—EXCELLENT FOOD—CHILDREN WHO WORK AND PLAY—CHILD THIEVES ON THE ROAD TO REGENERATION—UNFOUNDED ACCUSATIONS—ONLY AN INCORRIGIBLE WILL COMPLAIN—THE “BAHIAN REFORMATORY” IS ONE BIG FAMILY—WHERE THE “CAPTAINS OF THE SANDS” OUGHT TO BE.
(Titles in article published in the second Tuesday edition of the
Jornal da Tarde
, taking up the whole front page, on the Bahian Reformatory, with several pictures of the building and one of the Director.)
THE WAREHOUSE
In the moonlight, in an old abandoned warehouse, the children are sleeping.
In olden days this had been the sea. On the large, black rocks near the warehouse the waves sometimes broke fiercely, sometimes lapped softly. The water used to pass beneath the dock under which many children are resting now, lighted by a yellow moonbeam. From this dock innumerable fully-laden sailing ships used to leave, some were enormous and painted strange colors, for the adventure of an ocean crossing. They came here to fill their holds and tie up at this dock, whose planks are worm-eaten now. Formerly the mystery of the ocean sea spread out before the warehouse, nights before it were dark green, almost black, that mysterious color that is the color of the sea at night.
Today the night is clear before the warehouse. Before it the sands of the waterfront now extend. Under the dock there is no sound other than the waves. The sands have invaded everything, have made the sea retreat many yards. In a short time, slowly, the sands went conquering before the warehouse. The sailing ships that used to leave fully laden can no longer tie up at its dock. The muscular black men who had come out of slavery no longer worked there. A nostalgic sailor no longer
sang on the old dock. The sands, very white, extended out before the warehouse. And the immense building was never again filled with bales, sacks, cases, abandoned in the middle of the sands, a black spot on the whiteness of the shore.
For years it had been inhabited exclusively by rats, who ran through it playfully, gnawed the wood of the monumental doors, lived there as exclusive masters. For a certain time a stray dog sought it out as a refuge from the wind and the rain. On the first night he didn’t sleep, busy tearing rats that passed in front of him apart. Later he slept a few nights, barking at the moon in the early hours of the morning, for a large part of the roof was in ruins and the moonbeams penetrated freely, lighting up the thick plank floor. But he was a dog with no set place and he soon left in search of another dwelling, the darkness of a doorway, underneath a dock, the warm body of a bitch. And other rats returned to rule until the Captains of the Sands cast their eyes on the abandoned building.
At that time the door had fallen off to one side and one of the group, on a certain day when he was strolling along the extension of their domains (because all the sandy area of the waterfront, as all the city of Bahia too, belongs to the Captains of the Sands), went into the warehouse.
It would be a much better sleeping place than just the sands, than the docks of other warehouses where the water rose so high sometimes that it threatened to carry them off. And from that night on a large number of the Captains of the Sands slept in the old abandoned warehouse in the company of the rats, under the yellow moon. Before the vastness of the sands, a whiteness without end. In the distance the sea breaking on the beach. Through the door they saw the lights of ships entering and leaving. Through the ceiling they saw the sky with its stars, the moon that lighted them up.
Then, later, they transferred the collection of objects that their day’s work brought them to the warehouse. Strange things then entered the warehouse. No stranger, however, than those children, urchins of all colors and of the most varied ages, from nine to sixteen, who at night lay down on the floor
and under the dock and slept, indifferent to the wind that howled about the building, indifferent to the rain that often bathed them, but with their eyes fastened on the lights of the ships, their ears fixed on the songs that came from the smaller vessels…
Here too is the dwelling of the chief of the Captains of the Sands: Pedro Bala, the Bullet. He has been called that since early times, since he was five years old. Today he is fifteen. For ten of those years he has wandered about the streets of Bahia. He never knew anything about his mother, his father died of a bullet wound. He was left alone and he spent years learning about the city. Today he knows all its streets and all its alleys. There isn’t a shop, store, establishment that he doesn’t know. When he joined the Captains of the Sands (the newly-constructed waterfront attracted all the abandoned children of the city to its sands) the chief was Raimundo the Halfbreed, a strong and copper-colored mulatto.
Raimundo the Halfbreed didn’t last long in the leadership. Pedro Bala was much more active, he knew how to plan jobs, he knew how to deal with the others, he had the authority of a leader in his eyes and his voice. One day they fought. Raimundo’s misfortune was to pull out a razor and cut Pedro’s face, a scar that he had for the rest of his life. The others intervened and, since Pedro was unarmed, took his side and waited for the revenge that wasn’t long in coming. One night when Raimundo tried to beat up Outrigger, Pedro took over for the little black boy and they rolled around in the most sensational fight the sands of the waterfront had ever seen. Raimundo was taller and older. Pedro Bala, however, his blond hair flying, the red scar on his face, had a frightening agility and from that day on Raimundo not only gave up the leadership of the Captains of the Sands but the sands themselves. A while later he signed on board a ship.
