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The Captain
Chapter I
 

Soledad Aquino had been dead for years.

A thousand hands had, at some point or another in the history of the island of San Juan de Puerto Rico, touched the grand and imposing hacienda of the Aquino Family. Looming erect in the vast green, it kept the proud, wooden boards nailed by the men who edified its floors and rooms. Majestic amongst the mountains, the plantation house stretched like a yawning giant east and west and out into the vast fields of the town of San Germán.

The hacienda was composed of the plantation house itself, a great, white Spanish mansion with porches and tall windows, built entirely of wood and iron. Slightly smaller houses stemmed from its side, united by stone roads: the stables and pens for cows and bulls. Row upon row of meticulously kept fences lead towards fields of guava trees, tobacco plants, and sugar cane. A line of sheds, the slave quarters, lead to the trapiche, the plantation's elaborate sugar mill – a massive dark figure suffocated by the green and half buried in the reddish soil.

Since its construction in 1552, the hacienda stood as the most prominent plantation in the town, older than some of the fortifications in the island, even bigger than the town's government houses, those of the cabildo, which constituted the centre of the town. Although it stood miles away from the plaza and the church, it was as if the hacienda drew the town towards itself. It lived dormant within its own world, and not one passer-by – even the ones coming from remote parts in the eastern cities – ever went on his or her way without stopping to gaze and its splendid, orderly beauty. To the Spanish, its sight meant progress on such a wild land, because although vines and the ruthless, savage greenery of the island threatened the plantation, slaves and peons kept the wilderness at bay. The landlord, Don Alfonso Aquino, kept it so.

 The wilderness managed to swallow Soledad, though. His daughter.

Today, she sat by the window of one of the upper rooms in the hacienda, her bedroom, where she had sat for years, unaware and half awake, while the rest of the town and the hacienda celebrated their conquest over the wilderness. Today, the plantation masters celebrated the partnership of the Aquino and Mendez families, who recently joined their haciendas in an effort to advance their economies. Yet, such events played as figments in a gossamer of timelessness before her eyes. She was not part of them.
It was November. The sun, hot and merciless as in any summer day in the Caribbean island, danced into the room, running down the various little objects lying on the table by the window. Sewing needles caught the rays softly and reflected the light back into the mirrors by the closet in the left wall. The hot, ardent air mingled with the fall breeze flowed slowly into the room as the noise of the living throng, guest upon guest arriving to the plantation, continued in the patio below.

The young lady dropped her sewing into her lap and raised her head as the crowd outside began to laugh loudly. The whole town and neighbouring towns must be down there. She wished those people would leave, or at least be gone from her window. Such noise made her unable to concentrate.

She sighed and resumed her work, ignoring the clank of wine glasses poignant as shrill bells and the thin voices of ladies. Everyone pretending to still be in Spain. The cloth she sewed, all bright yellow and blue, was almost done. Soledad wanted nothing else in the world but to finish it, never mind the glasses and ladies. She loved sewing, the catatonic motion of needles through fabrics.

“Soledad,” a voice called her name from outside her door. It was her sister, Cristal.

Soledad rose as her sister walked in. Cristal's hair was swept up and away from her face, held in place by a small brooch encrusted with sapphires. She wore a magnificent brocade dress of deep blue colours adorned with silver laces that matched the ribbons trailing up and down her full, mutton sleeves. A starched white ruff encircled her throat. She was the very picture of an Asturian lady of the Court. The noise outside flowed into the room, now louder. Cristal smiled warmly, her eyes softening, and tapped her fan, as she usually did when she spoke, against her palm.

“I see you have chosen to remain in your room,” she said with a laugh.

She was older, if only for a few years, than Soledad. Her face had a particular resemblance of knowledge greater than her years. She folded her arms over her dress, pretending to be upset. She had recently taken a bath with perfumed oils and the sweet aromas drifted across the room. Cristal was such a lady of society, so keen to such details.

Soledad watched her sister cross the room and sit on her bed. Their eyes met, both small, round and dark. Soledad folded her arms over her own elaborate dress. There was such a contrast between them, even though both bore a soft beauty that was almost identical. The same rosy, small, round, full lips; the same long, curly dark hair fashioned in gorgeous buns of delicate Spanish confection. Their mother, the lady of the plantation, always instructed them to be perfect ladies, closer to impeccable human dolls. They resembled ladies in paintings, as if their lives existed merely inside a canvas.

Soledad put her sewing on the table and waited for her sister to talk, to urge her to join the rest of the families downstairs, as she knew her sister would do. She pretended to arrange a fold in her dress, straightening the dark fabric. Everything about Soledad was dark.

Although the Aquino family had not lost a member to the kind of tragedies that occurred in the Indies, Soledad always wore black, mournful clothes, a fact that matched the remote light that shone in her eyes. She coloured her lips red, painted her eyelids brown with fine makeup, arranged her hair in two curls over her chest, keeping the rest tied over her head with a peineta, a decorated hair comb.

Soledad was sixteen and she was odd.

There were those in the hacienda and in the town that would say Soledad had a sickness haunting her lovely eyes, making her remain alone, locked in her room, sewing. Still, those cruel commentaries died when they met her. When she spoke, her eyes and full lips were well educated and refined in the best of Spanish etiquette. She bore no trace of sickness, just a shadow of something people could not quite name. Yet, she preferred living alone most of her time, even though there were many who looked for her favour, countless of suitors who desired her for their wife. They waited downstairs, jealous of the young man her father chose as her future husband, who, Soledad thought, probably paraded as a king amongst the guests.

“The Mendez family just arrived,” Cristal said, interrupting her thoughts.

Cristal, two years older than her sister, found no reason for Soledad's refusal to enjoy life, but she never questioned her rationality. Soledad was kind and stately at all times. No, Cristal had always known her sister was not sick. She believed Soledad lived in a lonely world.

Taking the cloth, Cristal inspected her sister's work and smiled. Soledad had a wondrous gift with her hands. She could crochet, sew, spin and confection anything with a needle, even though it was just a talent both learned as part of their life as ladies. Her hands could work miracles. Cristal smiled at her sister, proud of her work. She ran her gloved hand over the coverlets on the bed.
“I am sorry,” Soledad said. “I had no idea. I will be downstairs immediately.” Her voice was low, like a whisper, and lacking the gayety of most women in the New World. Just then, she blanched. “Is father back with the peons?”

Cristal smiled and clasped her hands. Her eyes shone with the sweet girlish happiness of one who is in love. She pulled her sister towards the door. “Yes,” she said. “Roberto is with him. We're waiting for you.”

Soledad smiled and followed her sister down the narrow stairs. Below lay the vibrant world. 1595.

Servants rushed up and down the stairs, trays in hand to serve the masters of the plantation. Cooks prepared food in the kitchen. The plantation floated in a splendid celebration. Countless of people stood in the hallways, the ballrooms, and stretched out into the patio and courtyard, talking and walking excitedly as if drunk by the evening air. The heat from the country flowed into the rooms. The servants tried their best to keep the rooms cool while the breeze from the mountains, untameable, blew in.

The room was alive with guests – important families, members of the cabildo, ladies of society, the finest of capatazes – the slave masters. Everyone dressed in the height of fashion. It had been a hard and arduous task, but finally most of the town's plantations had joined in what was to be the first agricultural partnership in the Indies. This year presented their first fruitful harvest and not a soul in the room, wine in hand, spent one moment without saying so.

Soledad lowered her eyes as quickly as one of the women caught sight of her on the stairs and called out her name. All eyes were now on her as everyone stopped what they were doing and watched the youngest of the Aquino daughters descend into the parlour.
“You finally decided to join us, mi amor,” an old woman cried as she took the girl's hand. Soledad smiled and bowed gracefully as men and women drew closer to greet her. At once, Soledad transformed into propriety and sensibility.

Cristal left her as she caught sight of their father, Don Aquino, by the fountain. A group of excited field masters gathered around him, engaged in colourful conversation. She headed towards him, trying to hold back her excitement over the reason why she really wanted to find him.

That reason, Roberto Almodovar, stood tall and graceful beside her father, talking to several of his men. He was the plantation's main slave overseer, the capataz. They followed him as fawning admirers, emulating his bows to the ladies and his charming smiles. He caught sight of Cristal, but kept his place as was proper by society's demanding. He was a true gentleman.

Her father, though, let out a loud laugh. “My daughters,” he cried out, his hands outstretched. “At last, we are all together!”

Don Alfonso Aquino was a man in his seventies, with a rugged face showing signs of days in hard labour under the sun, and a strong massive body. His laughter bore the joviality of the carefree, and he patted his chest when he spoke or rubbed his head, where grey hairs still remained. He had spent most of his life in the Indies, one of the many who sailed in his twenties to find his fortunes in the 1540s. Years later, he was the owner of over thirty sugar and coffee plantations in San Juan, San Germán, and San Blás de Illescas. He was the mayor, the figurehead of the cabildo, and held a chair in El Consejo de las Indias, the council of representatives in the New World. When he spoke, the rooms fell silent in admiration.

Cristal smiled as her father reached to kiss her loudly on her cheek, and Soledad took his hand. The crowd laughed.

“Such wonderful daughters,” a man from the crowd said to Don Aquino.

Soledad could feel herself blushing, but her father held her closer.

“Yes, beautiful angels,” he said.

Roberto smiled at Cristal, his dark eyes shining as he held her form in his gaze, sinking into her beauty.

“I look forward to this new season,” said Don Mendez, the leader of the magistrate and guest of honour. He was a large man with shinning, honest eyes, dressed in white. He had arrived to the island only five years after the Aquino family founded their plantation, and was Don Aquino's closest friend. “This promises to be the best year for our haciendas, now that we are all together as family.”
Don Aquino smiled and embraced his old friend, his eyes shinning. He had looked forward for years to establish a partnership with him. “Yes,” he said. “Once the peons and all the workers and slaves begin work, our families will be blessed. I am glad that our families decided to join in friendship.”

“Double the work,” Roberto said, taking a glass of wine a servant offered him.

Turning around and smiling at his daughters and Roberto, Don Aquino grinned and patted a passing waiter. “Yes, more work,” he said.

The men and women laughed, the sound light and happy. On a night such as this, they were invincible.

Don Mendez stepped to the middle of the room, drawing the eyes of the servants and the guests. As he had done many times during the evening, he looked out at the front gates, as if searching for someone there, but found no one. He turned back to the group and smiled.

“We owe it all to his Excellency Captain Rodrigo de la Casa de las Rosas,” he said.

“But where is he?”

Cristal frowned and looked sideways at her sister. Soledad's eyes seemed to be looking at nothing, yet she knew Soledad had heard; her eyes now stared at the floor. Cristal bit her lip, wishing she could know why the Casa de las Rosas family and the man who would marry her sister were not here yet. Soledad remained silent, her face devoid of expression.

Don Aquino, looked towards his gates nervously, and turned around. “Where is Rodrigo?” he asked.

“Must've delayed while he made arranges at the finca.”

Roberto finished his wine. “He'll be here, mi señor,” he said with a smile. “He has plenty of reason to return.” He cast a look at Soledad, his eyes full of love.

Don Aquino clasped his daughter's hand in his own. “Yes,” her father said. “He does.” Soledad smiled at her father, her eyes still not full of emotion.

The magistrate walked towards the dining room, calling for the rest of the guests to follow him. “Let's eat before the birds fly off our plates.”

“We can't eat before Captain Rodrigo arrives!” Roberto pleaded.

“Then,” Don Mendez said, “let's conjure a couple of toasts.”

Don Aquino released his daughter and followed him, engrossed with his guests.

His wife, Doña Rosalinda Aquino, stately as a queen, appeared by the dinning room doors and greeted him. Don Aquino trusted the young household leader would arrive soon.

*

The sea air beat against the sails that had been lowered so their entrance to the bay could not be noticed, and howled softly as if they were in pain. In anticipation of pain. From within the massive pirate galleon, many eyes watched the families gathered in the largest plantation in the town. All guards had been released from their duties for the night, all duties forsaken.

There were no fires lit within the townhouses; everyone concentrated in the grand hacienda. Soon those fires would burn beyond control. The people in the hacienda, lost in their joy over their new acquired land and labour, would regret their negligence.
The young man on the dark deck, his hair tugged about his face madly by the wind, his hand on the hilt of his sword, smiled to himself.

“Fools,” he breathed.

*

 The fourth waltz of the night played, the band of native musicians doing their best to please their masters while couples danced to its melody. Spanish ladies swept their gowns and fans in coquettish glee, while gentlemen guided them in circles. The ballroom was enormous, candelabras cast golden shadows on the guests, who shone as if they danced in a castle. Long tables with food, drinks and gifts lined the walls. The tall, wooden windows lay open, and the sounds of the night joined the native instruments.

Curtains decorated the doors and windows. Classical statues stood at the corners and master paintings hung on the walls. The room was inundated by good cheer and talking. By the tables, elderly women talked while the younger ladies danced. The men drank champagne and watched the younger couples, discussing politics.

Soledad stood by the door that lead to the servants’ rooms, delighted to be alone. After an hour, she bowed to her father from afar and walked away from the party. She wanted to be alone again. It was always the same. She never lingered long enough for celebrations. Some part of her told her she was wrong, and rude as well, but the loudest part of her dragged her further away from the couples and the music. She walked slowly away from the tumult, taking the stone roads that lead to the outskirts of the plantation, into the quietness of a chapel. No one had seen her go or noticed her absence, and she was glad that she left the uninteresting celebration behind.

She sighed in relief as she sat in a pew. The chapel was dark and quiet, save for the lickings of the tongues of candles. She knew she needed to return eventually. It was proper for a lady to greet her suitor when he arrived; she must go meet Rodrigo if he ever made his appearance. Still, for now she could enjoy the silence.

In the hacienda, the fifth waltz played and the families cheered as if they were in Spain and not in wild land they felt proud to have conquered and civilized, the New World, the savage Indies of Christopher Columbus. They had reason to celebrate. For years, the island's sugar plantations had been independent and isolated, each struggling to overcome the wild and poverty, until Captain De las Rosas devised to join them. Bankrupt hacendados settled debts, field masters could find new jobs, and wealthy plantation owners, such as Don Aquino, received more land. Tonight, the Spaniards who abandoned the Old World became one in dance and song while the stars promised a new beginning for the workers and their masters.

Yet, just as the sixth waltz started, about the eyes of a modest lady, a peon rushed into the room. Don Aquino gasped.

The servant caught his breath and shouted, his mind afraid of horrors only he had seen. “Pirates! The town's under attack.”

The music died. A hush fell over the room, a few undignified murmurs here and there. The servant stood shaking in the middle of the room, bewildered. Seeing the dishevelled man, the dancers grew afraid, the men reaching into their coats for their pistols. Just then, the dim sound of canons came from the distance. An old lady screamed as the yells of the invaders accompanied them.

“It's them,” the servant cried out.

“Impossible,” Don Aquino cried out. He ran out into the courtyard, only to find his peons cowering by the patio wall, their eyes teary. He cursed as the magistrate joined him outside. Don Mendez hoped to settle his friend's anger, but as soon as he stepped outside, he felt himself petrified with fear.

In the distance, the town lay in flames, the invaders devouring every house like wild ants.

“They're burning the port,” Don Mendez said. The fire, he could tell, spread from house to house, slowly threatening the Aquino hacienda.

In the plantation, the guests became truly afraid, panic climbing up their legs slowly. Amidst the growing fear, Roberto raced outside and joined the hacendados. A few of his admirers joined him.

The sounds of yelling grew louder as shots rang in the air. Horse sheds caught flames and the joyous, mocking laughter of the invaders grew louder. The celebration was over, Don Aquino thought, as he looked back at the scared face of his wife.

“My God,” Don Mendez said. “They'll burn the whole town!”

Don Aquino could not speak. His peons rose as Roberto called to them. “Muskets everyone,” Roberto instructed. The peons still shook with fear, but they obeyed the plantation's capataz. The young leader nodded grimly, inspecting each man briefly. His eyes betrayed fear but he wasn't willing to show it.

“Everyone to shelter,” Don Aquino ordered as he walked back into the party. Don Mendez followed suit. Behind them, peons closed doors and windows. The musicians gathered their instruments, while the dancers huddled into the corners of the room. The old trembled, their hands dropping their drinks.

“Savages! Looters!” an old man screamed.

A woman sobbed. “A party; we were just having a party.”

“This savages intend to kill us,” Don Aquino informed his guests, his voice stern, yet even. “Sit down,” he instructed as he shut the windows that lead to the patio gates. “Away from all windows. Keep calm, ladies and gentlemen.” He was afire, bolting the doors and windows. He called to his peons and gathered every able man in the room; the brave men did not need to hear him ask. They readied their pistols and took their places by the barred windows. To Don Aquino, these were his people, who counted on him for protection and guidance. His people.

Don Aquino climbed the stairs to the second floor of the hacienda. His eyes narrowed in anger. From up there, he could see the entire town engulfed in flames. He braced himself as he exited into the balcony, his heart aching. The bloody looters had drawn a path of fire and destruction all the way from the shore to the centre of the town, the governor's house. The old man lost his breath. The huge sails of a pirate ship strained in the wind, resembling a nightmare. Fires and smoke surrounded the galleon some distance from the beach. A ship from hell, he thought, as he watched with disbelieving eyes the lines of men and women who left its deck to plunder the governor's house.

 “We were fools,” he whispered.

The governor. Just then, he remembered he had not seen the governor all night. He had thought it odd that the man had not greeted his host, but the night had not been orderly. Now, a sudden fear clutched his heart. The screams of the peons, his men and those who were brave enough to confront the looters, reached him. Screams of death. From his place, he could see Roberto and his men; they looked so scared.

A shot rang at the windows of the hacienda. Don Aquino raced back into the house, turning to shut the windows behind himself. Suddenly, he stopped as he caught sight of a lone figure, clad in red with dark, flowing hair, standing in the middle of a circle of fire, watching as the pirates robbed the town. He did not look like a pirate; he wore a delicate overcoat, contrasting with the rest of the crew of looters. His face and body were close to those of a young man. The old man gasped as the lone figure raised its head, almost as if he had noticed the old man watching, and looked in his direction.

“My God,” the old man whispered. Those eyes were full of hatred.

At the young man's commands, the pirates rushed upon the cows and bulls, hauling them at their wills. Their pistols broke windows. Stones were hurled at gates and roofs. In the neighbouring houses, greedy hands stole valuables – jewels, dresses, food, plates, and barrels of grains.

The hacienda rumbled as a new wave of canon shots growled in the night. Don Aquino heard the whimpering of his guests. He was no longer sure his family was safe. He ran.

Downstairs. Roberto's men barred the gates, Roberto clutching his head. He'd been defeated and forced to return to the plantation.

“They are too many,” a youth said. “They'll kill us all.”

Just then, a scream broke the silence as one of the gates flung open, a young man stepping through the gates. He raced up the steps to the ballroom, boots like horse hooves assaulting stone, his blond hair wild. The peons broke away, fearful that the youth would crush them and drew back as he headed towards the landlord. It was Rodrigo. His angered face shone, lit by the fire.

“Captain de las Rosas!” a peon cried.

Don Aquino gasped as Rodrigo looked at him, coldly. The fire of the plunderers had begun to eat the slave sheds, headed for the mill, and the Africans raced in fright from their wooden sheds.

Rodrigo cried out, his angry voice echoing through the courtyard, “Listen! Listen to them!”

Don Aquino staggered to the huge gates. Behind him, his daughter's suitor watched from where he stood. Amongst the fire crackles, the pistol shots, the canon blasts, and the laughter, the old hacendado breathed in harder as his mind distinguished the words the looters were singing out.

“Death to the Spanish! Death to the Spanish!”

“Madre Santa…” Roberto breathed.

Rodrigo approached Don Aquino, who clung to the gates in despair and anger. The fire and screams lit across Rodrigo's blue eyes. He had been out there. He understood the pain in the old man's grip. His richly decorated coat flowed like a cape. He stood tall and proud, a soldier in a nobleman's body next to the old man, watching coldly as the town burned and died in the hands of the attackers.

Rodrigo's silent curse was interrupted by a maid who rushed out of the safety of the house and into the patio. He turned to send the whimpering woman to her room with a yell, but she ran up to the hacendado. “Master,” she sobbed. “Your daughter…”

She had not finished, when Cristal broke into the patio as well, her hair dishevelled. Ashes from the fires were caught in her hair, her face blanched with sorrow, her mouth twisted. “Papi! Soledad's gone!”

Rodrigo clenched his fists at the display of the women and turned away as the old man crumpled, clutching his head. Roberto supported his future bride, but he could not bear to look into his master's face.

Furious, Rodrigo rose into one of the horses in the courtyard. He pulled on the reigns, bringing its head up. Don Aquino braced himself, approaching the horse. He looked up with a silent plea at the face he admired to be the best soldier, the most powerful young man in the Indies.

“I'll bring her back, mi señor,” Rodrigo said. “Roberto, you and your men put a musket at each gate. Surround the patio.”

Roberto breathed in hard, his eyes clouding with determination, but it hurt that Rodrigo, barely a year older than him, ordered him like a servant. He did not like being ordered in such a fashion, not from a person who, in everything but his titles, was his equal. Yet, he wished to keep those he loved save, his master, his people, and his bride. Beside him, the old man's eyes became saddened. He held Cristal tight and watched as the horse and its rider thundered into the hell that snarled at the outskirts in his hacienda.
Roberto walked towards the gate. His men could not understand his face as they searched for the source of the sorrow in their leader's eyes. They knew he loved Soledad dearly, as much as his own sister, and wanted to ride to find her himself.

The gates swung shut and peons tried to keep them closed. The peons, of all people, knew Roberto's place was at the hacienda.

(c) 2003 Marisabel Bonet. iUniverse Publishing