LEAVING his small farmstead in the drought-cursed lands of Ceará, young Antão Pessoa set out for the port of Para, at the mouth of the River Amazon, in search of the El-Dorado of his visions―the great rubber lands of the upper river, where fortunes were to be made with ease, and where life held the enchantments of adventure, hazard, and discovery. He fully expected to return to his home and aged parents within a few years, a wealthy man and a landowner, for he feared God and was a “good” Catholic.
Path is a fine, picturesque city of about 200,000 inhabitants, where it rains every day, and where consequently the glories of equatorial vegetation and insect life are seen at their best―and worst. The flora and fauna of the mighty Amazon are without equal in their variety and beauty, a veritable naturalist’s paradise, but the curse which fell on Eden has here also its sign and seal. Full of unimaginable wonders and awe-inspiring in their vast extent, yet cruel and merciless, “red in tooth and claw,” are the dark forests of Amazonia. These dense and untracked forests have swallowed up many a fine man who has incautiously ventured to penetrate its mysteries; and many a well-equipped expedition, too, has there been lost forever. Perils from savage, untamed Indians, who resent the “pale-face” intruders, are not the least of its hidden dangers. Perils of sudden death from unsuspected snake, prowling jaguar, or poison spider, from the terrible sting-ray, the electric eel and cannibal fish (Piranha), or from that bit of driftwood that seems to float so idly down the river, but generally in your direction, and which but hides the hideous form of some designing twelve-foot cayman―any of these confront the explorer in these regions. There was another greater peril yet that Antão was soon to prove―that of cruel, conscienceless men, who seek to exploit the bodies and souls of their fellows. Hidden away from the great river and its mighty tributaries, from the splendid river craft that thread its maze of sixty thousand miles of navigable waterways, and often hidden from the Government itself, are haunts of brutal slavery and crime, from which there is no escape. Woe betide the unsuspecting victim, Brazilian or Britisher, who falls into the toils of these human spiders!
Antão had walked the streets several days in a vain search for employment, and funds were low. Work, and work of any kind, was imperative.
“Hullo, camarada! Looking for a job, eh?” Antão found himself thus accosted by a striking and well-dressed individual in top boots and wide sombrero hat. A very fancy-looking pistol was stuck in his belt, with a suspicion of other such weapons about his person. A most attractive and desirable sort of friend he appeared to Antão. This good opinion was confirmed when the man of the big hat opened up before him a proposal which seemed to promise fame and fortune. He heard of a lovely rubber estate “somewhere” up the Amazon, where work was as plentiful as there was gold to pay for it, and where there was unlimited fishing, hunting, and similar joys―for Antão was a sportsman. Money would be advanced to cover his fare and expenses, and provide him with an outfit of tools, clothes, and the indispensable rifle.
Highly elated at such golden prospects, Antão thoroughly enjoyed the first thousand miles of travel up the Amazon to the big rubber city of Manaos, finding in his company another dozen or so young men who had also been beguiled by the fair words of the man with the big sombrero hat.
A few days were spent in that city, where vice and crime abound, and where white rum and other devilments considerably reduced the general balance in hand, and then they were all packed on board a tiny river boat and continued their long journey up the muddy waters of the Solomões, as the river is called above Manaos. After a week or two of this uncomfortable travel on one of the largest tributaries, they were again transferred into several dug-out canoes, and entering a narrower and darker river—the Japura—they toiled upstream at the rate of about twenty miles a day. It was hard, heavy work, and not quite what they had expected, but Antão and his mates consoled themselves with thoughts of the good time coming and the wealth soon to be theirs. For several weeks they labored against the heavy current, through dense, dark forests, seemingly destitute of inhabitants, and whose thick foliage sometimes met overhead and seemed to enclose them in its sinister embrace. The warm, damp atmosphere, charged with the fumes of rotting vegetation, is enervating and oppressive, and Antão’s bright vision began to dim.
At last, on a hut appearing away upstream on the river’s bank, one of the Indian boatmen blew a horn. It was the “barracao” of the rubber lord of the region, just as I saw it myself a few years ago: a crude building on high piles to clear the floods, made of split palms and rough logs, with a roof of palm leaf thatch.
As the canoes drew up at a crude wharf facing the unattractive barracao, a motley crowd of human scarecrows gathered round to witness the arrival of the newcomers. Victims of hunger, disease, and drink they were, an awesome and a most unhappy looking lot of men, with not a woman among them. It seemed to Antão to be a very cheerless kind of welcome, and fear struck his heart when one of the men, in reply to some optimistic remark, looked at him in commiseration, and said, “Ah, you will soon forget those fairy tales, as I did ten years ago, for you will never leave here again! No one ever has done so, or ever will get away alive!” Antão had virtually sold himself into slavery.
Rubber can only be extracted during the rains, and from this limited period, some weeks, and often months, must also be deducted for the lost days of ever present fever; so that far from ever paying back the advanced £50, the victims only increase the debt, for when workless and sick, food and drugs had to be provided to keep the slave alive, so that the debt was never overtaken. Escape was well-nigh impossible, for the only way was down the river, and a well-manned and well-armed crew of Indians soon overtook any attempt in that direction. Escape through the dense forests meant certain death from hunger, wild beasts, or wilder Indians―as many an unhappy wretch had discovered to his cost.
Such a prospect might well have dismayed a stouter heart than Antão possessed, but he was never a man to give way to despair, nor did he lack courage and resource. There and then he knit himself together, and resolved to pay the debt and to escape the entangling web at all costs.
At once he cut out every luxury and vice, for these things meant further bondage. Sugar and coffee and other such things were banned, and he resolved to keep clear of the ever-available white rum. He even denied himself his beloved tobacco. During the rainy season, when rubber is extracted, day after day he tramped over his long, damp forest trails in search of rubber trees in the section of forest allotted to him; until he had mapped out twenty miles or more of pathways, zigzagging here and there from tree to tree. Month after month he tramped those lonely paths, with his big tin for the rubber milk, a scoring knife, and the necessary rifle. Indians were ever present, though unseen, and sometimes Antão would find one of his newly opened paths had been lightly barred with a few crossed sticks. It was an intimation from the unseen Redskins that he must penetrate no further in that direction, and he knew better than to ignore the warning. When the rains ceased, instead of lying idly in his hammock like the other men, Antão was out with his ax cutting firewood for sale to any passing steam craft, or doing little odd jobs for the boss, with whom he was soon in high favor, so that he was even entrusted with a canoe for his own use. Happily he kept well, and never had to buy on credit, as his companions invariably had to do.
A year or two passed, and although Antao was no mathematician, and the account books in the “barracao” were never balanced he felt that his freedom must have been nearly purchased; though he dare not mention the matter yet, especially as the boss at that time was furious at the loss of several men who, after long absence, had been found murdered on their trails. They had ignored the Redskins’ warning through bravado or carelessness, and had paid the price. A further loss of one of his rubber slaves decided the boss on a dreadful retaliation. Gathering some of his men together, with his own band of trusted Indians as a guarantee, he marched through the forest along those phantom trails, guided by one of his Redskins.
For the best part of a week they traversed a tortuous course through the Amazonian forest until they found the sought for village of the suspected Indians. The place was surrounded without arousing the inhabitants, until they commenced their fusillade. Few Indians escaped, and the rest, both men, women, and children, were massacred in cold blood.
Though he managed to avoid participation in this barbarous business, it filled Antão with indignation and fear, and he redoubled his efforts to throw off the yoke that held him. One night he forgot to chain and padlock his canoe as usual, and it was stolen by three of his fellow-slaves, who sought to escape downstream by that means. For certain reasons Antão had no sympathy with them. It also endangered the goodwill of the boss, which had been acquired so laboriously, and he would have to pay heavily for the lost canoe. The barracão was 20 miles away, but cutting his way through the forests and swamps, and swimming the rivers and lakes which intervened, he finally carried news of the escape to headquarters. The runaways had had three days’ start towards liberty, when a well-manned canoe, with a dozen armed Indians, set out in pursuit. Six days later they overtook the fugitives, taking them quite by surprise as they rested on a sandbank. Loaded with ignominy and shame, they were pushed into the big canoe, paddles were thrust into their hands, and they were urged on unceasingly as they worked their way back to a hopeless captivity.
Three years had now passed by since Antão had been snared by the gentleman of the big sombrero, when one day, as Antão happened to be near the barracao, there was a scene of some excitement owing to the arrival of a Government launch traveling up the river to establish a frontier station thereon with the neighboring Republic of Columbia. There were some half-dozen officials and a score of sailors in the party, but the chief officer was looking out for one or two additional men to strengthen the force under his command. Good money and great privileges were offered, but nobody was forthcoming—for all were in debt. He could have the pick of his men, if he paid their debts, the boss declared, for well he knew that this price was too great, and besides, the Brazilian Government does not favor this form of slavery, however much they tolerate it.
Here was a chance for Antão, and pushing himself in front of the crowd, he asked if he would do. Eyeing him up and down, the Brazilian officer was attracted by his fine physique and smart appearance, and demanded the boss to show how much he owed. Very loathfully, the latter was compelled to produce his books, and, to and behold! Antão was a free man, with a nice little sum on the credit side to boot.
Wild as he felt to lose such a man, his old master felt compelled to bear testimony to the faithfulness and good character of his late slave. The old contract was soon annulled, and the new one signed and sealed, and off went the Government boat, leaving Antão to gather his few scattered possessions, sell up the rubber he had on hand, and follow on upstream to the newly-formed station. And thus he bade farewell to slavery, to the great astonishment of his late companions, and set off on his new venture. His purchased canoe was a poor affair, and he could hardly keep it afloat, the river’s bottom being clearly visible through a hole in its hull. The perils from crocodiles and other beasts were many and real ere he finally reached his new home some days later.
Here he had an easy, comfortable life, in vivid contrast to the past three years of torment, and he could now hunt and fish to his heart’s content, one of his duties being the provisioning of the station with fish, turtles, cow-fish, and any forest delicacies available.
One day he set out with his gun to explore a new section of the forest, some hours’ journey by canoe and foot. Here he found sport, and wandered incautiously farther and yet farther from his canoe into the enclosing forest. When he tried to retrace his steps, he soon found to his horror that he had lost his trail. Turning here and there, he walked miles in each direction, hoping to come across some sign he might recognize, but his efforts were in vain, and he became more and more involved in the denser forest, and soon lost his sense of direction. Night overtaking him, he climbed up a big tree to pass the night in its branches, to escape the perils that stalk in darkness. He was not without hopes of escaping, for he still had his gun, and he looked forward hopefully to the coming daylight to recommence his search for a way out. In this uncomfortable situation, however, there was no rest for the poor fellow, for several times a prowling jaguar sniffed suspiciously around the base of his tree, although happily it did not look up. Then it began to rain, and soon he was drenched and cold, and hungry, too, and oh! calamity of calamities!― with the wet his ammunition was spoiled and useless, All next day he wandered through the forest wherever he could penetrate, with only a few wild berries by way of food, and again he had to spend a night in a tall tree top, fastening himself in the forks of the branches, so that he should not fall if he dozed too much.
The third day found his strength fast failing him, but still he tried to crawl through the forest here and there as fancy led him, only to find his way back to the spot he had left hours before. Late that afternoon he thought he heard a gunshot away over the treetops. It was some of his companions who had been sent out to look for the lost man. There is a regular code among hunters by which signals can be made by gunshot, and intelligible replies received, but he could not reply as his ammunition was wet, and it was impossible to tell the direction of the sound. However, he passed the third night more hopefully among the branches.
Next day he anxiously listened for hours for some signal from his searching companions, and again he heard that distant gunshot above the treetops, but without locating the direction, and it looked as if he were going to die within sound of deliverance.
Then he had an inspiration, and detaching his rifle barrel from the stock, and painfully climbing the tallest of the surrounding trees, he used the barrel as a kind of bugle, and managed to make a long-drawn-out, high-pitched note, which sounded away across the forest. Then anxiously―how anxiously! ―he awaited a response. He had not long to wait, for to his great joy another gunshot sounded, and so much nearer that he was able to get his direction at last, and make his way towards his rescuers. Several signals were exchanged, and at last he found himself on the river bank again, and soon afterward was discovered by the search party and carried home, very limp and a bit scared, but otherwise none the worse for an adventure which might have cost him his life.
The next event of importance in his history took place a few weeks later, when, with one companion, in a dug-out with a few Bibles on board, I pulled up at this frontier station and asked for their hospitality while I waited for the arrival of the steam launch to take me down to Manaos. We had just concluded a very disappointing journey of investigation of the Indian tribes of that region. For what happened on the occasion, and just what the after results were for Antão, I must refer my readers to my previous book, “Adventures with the Bible in Brazil,” where a full account will be found, to which I can add but little.
Let it suffice to say that during a series of meetings which I held among his sailor colleagues Antão was converted and became an avid reader of the Bible. Soon after I had set off downstream to Manaos, in route for London, Antão started a school among the sailors, and taught eight of them to read the Bible, including a fine young Indian, and several of these men were eventually converted also. I kept in touch with him, supplying him with schoolbooks and Scriptures, and several years later he joined me in Maceio, and soon became the best colporteur in North Brazil, and a great soul-winner. Many a long journey we have made together throughout Brazil, and many have been the adventures and perils this lion-hearted man has cheerfully faced for Christ’s sake, which might not have been but for that hard preparation and testing time among the rubber slaves of the upper Amazon.