The Abyss

by Lara Blunte

  "What does he want with our little sliver of land?" Juliana had cried, as if Napoleon had decided to spite her in particular.

  "Ports," her husband had said. "And Brazil."

  Juliana's eyes had spat fire at the mention of the colony. The British had been trying to convince Prince John to go to Brazil and secure the richest of his territories, leaving Lisbon to be defended by them.

  The friendship between Portugal and Great Britain went back centuries, and John would hardly have been left out of the struggle for hegemony between the British and the French. Britain wanted to put its mighty navy in the Tagus and the Atlantic, and use it to bomb Napoleon's forces when they arrived in Lisbon, probably destroying the city in the process.

  The prince was in his usual state of indecision, now promising Napoleon that he would side with him, now telling the British that he would do what they said, only to finally assure his own people that he would never leave or surrender. He probably had meant all three promises at different times.

  Pedro's opinion was that John would decide to go to Brazil and, as usual with tragically indecisive people, he would do so suddenly.

  "It's better to be prepared!" he warned his wife and daughter.

  But Juliana, taking the prince's indecision and the possibility of having to move across the ocean as a personal injury to her once more, refused to accept the idea and ordered her husband to tell the regent that he must stay put!

  She motioned around her living room, which she had spent twenty five years furnishing, "How do you expect me to take all this?" She opened a cupboard to show the fine china and crystal glasses that she inordinately loved "And this?"

  Pedro must convince the prince to stay and fight, or make an alliance with Napoleon and send the British to their own waters, she said in high rage.

  Clara had a much clearer view of what was happening, and it was another good reason for her to send her suitors packing. "We don't even know where we will be, months from now," she would say.

  She had no idea that she was being called “Não-Não", and if she did, she would have been glad. It had been difficult enough to refuse the men who kept coming to her, or the ones her mother would bring. She was running out of reasons to not marry and Juliana had more than once screamed at her that she would be a solteirona, an old maid, the worst of all fates for a woman.

  She was almost twenty-three, and had been "in the market" for five years. She was old merchandise. Some even whispered that she was second-hand goods, that Gabriel Almada de Castro had already "been there" and then run away.

  "Encalhada! "Juliana screamed at Clara. "You are stuck like a wrecked boat on the rocks. You are getting old, and less and less men will want you!"

  The relationship between mother and daughter, which had been close years before, had reached a point of permanent war. Juliana became angrier and angrier at the thought that her masterpiece, the lovely Clara, had been created in vain. The girl was supposed to elevate them all into another life, and instead she sat, moped, and refused rich men.

  Juliana knew the reason for her actions too well, and had hissed at Clara more than once, "He must be dead by now of some fever, or married to someone else!"

  It was like a knife twisting in her gut for Clara to hear such things. She was waiting for Gabriel, who had disappeared without a trace after the morning when he had asked her to leave with him, over four years before. To hear that he might have died alone in some terrible place broke her heart; to hear that he might be married, and have children with another woman made her want to die.

  Having been partially educated in a convent, Clara would resort to a host of protectors when she begged like a child, "Please, God, please Holy Virgin, please Saint Anthony, please Saint Claire! Please let him be alive and well, please, bring him back. I will do anything, but please!"

  All she wanted was to see Gabriel again and, if he were angry, to explain that she had never meant what she had said, that she had been dying inside, and that she had since wished every day, all day long, that she had left with him.

  She could still see his hand extended, waiting for hers, his blue eyes clouding, his whole face hardening when he had understood that she was not going to accept his offer.

  Since he had left, her life had been hell, with her mother shrieking at her to accept man after man, and she disliking them all. None of them could compare to Gabriel. None of them inspired the slightest affection in her, while Gabriel still occupied her thoughts every day.

  Was there a worse thing, she wondered, than to be near a man one didn't love? Would a man not want to kiss her, if she were his wife, and do other things that she still didn't know enough about ─ intimate things? Would she not have to spend a lifetime looking at a man she did not love, listening to him, taking care of his household, giving birth to his children?

  How could she bear such things?

  Because every woman bore them, Juliana would say. "Do you think I was in love with your father?" she asked. "It was the right thing to do!"

  Clara had the result of "the right thing to do" in front of her eyes every day: parents who did not know the first thing about each other, who avoided meeting unless it was, in Juliana's case, to browbeat her husband.

  She knew that there could not have been passion between them, as there had been between Gabriel and her ─ but there was not even affection and understanding, as one might hope after twenty-five years together.

  Why would such a terrible existence, devoid of any beautiful feeling, be worth leading? Juliana had never trusted her own prosperity and still thought in terms of surviving and thriving. To materially thrive meant that Clara must say yes to a man as soon as possible. And Juliana's standards had fallen, because Europe was at war and Clara was getting older; now her husband could be any man with enough money.

  She did not forget that Clara's intransigence had brought about the end of her dreams. The foolish girl did not understand anything, still less the fact that love was a story for fools, that it didn't exist, that even if a pale shadow of it appeared, it would soon dissipate in the face of reality.

  Reality was that one must have a good roof over one's head and things, one must eat well, have servants, be able to afford good doctors and medicine. One must matter, one must not be swallowed up in the middle of the crowd of people who were expendable.

  Why had Clara been born so beautiful, if not to matter?

  On that October morning Juliana still refused to think of the French and insisted that Clara should go to the park with her and ride a little. "You need some air!" she told her daughter. "You need to put color on your cheeks."

  Clara decided not to resist, but it was clear to her when they arrived at the park and the Baron of Ramos met them, that this had been somehow arranged.

  She stood scowling in her riding habit, holding her horse by the bridle, while her mother smiled, nodded at the Baron and practically rubbed her hands.

  Ramos! Clara thought. Even if she knew nothing of the man, she would immediately have been able to tell that he was a roué: he was not even thirty years-old and already looked forty, with a face bloated by drink and a knowing smile that almost always accompanied his hooded stare.

  She felt her back stiffen as Juliana continued her conversation with the man and he looked her up and down with a liberty no gentleman would have shown. Clara was fuming when the Baron asked for the pleasure of escorting her on her ride, and Juliana beamed and motioned for her to get on her horse.

  It would not do to refuse, since he knew that she had just arrived with the intention of going for a ride: everything, it seemed, had been agreed between him and Juliana, and her mother would not insist on a chaperone. But as she got on her saddle with Ramos' help and his hand lingered on her arm, Clara could not help throwing Juliana a bitter look.

  How can you send me off with a man such as this? she was asking silently. Everyone knew Ramos' only purpose in life was to seduce women, and yet because he had a fortune and a title, her mother w
as content to let her be seen with him. When I was never left alone two minutes with Gabriel, she thought, an honest man worth ten million of this Baron.

  As they rode away from Juliana and further into the park, Clara was nevertheless thinking she ought to have pleaded a headache or dizziness. She could not help worrying as they rode through the trees and saw less and less people. Ramos obviously knew the park better than she did and was luring her away from the busiest paths.

  "It's a beautiful day," he said as they trotted, throwing a glance at her which lingered on her waist, then her breasts. Clara could feel herself flushing, but his eyes, now on her face, were shining with lust.

  "I would like to be nearer the path," she said, incapable of pretending that she felt comfortable.

  "Why?" he asked outright. "You're not afraid of me?"

  Clara turned to look at him. "Not of you, no. Of your reputation."

  "Ah!" he exclaimed, laughing. "How refreshing! A woman who says what she thinks."

  "Please let us return to the path," she asked again, and began pulling on the reins until Ramos took hold of them with a gloved hand and stopped her.

  Clara gasped. His hand was touching hers, but she did not want to let go of the reins, as he would then lead her horse wherever he wanted.

  "Please let go!" she said.

  "Come, come," Ramos said, pulling the bridle towards him and bringing her closer. "Don't be afraid!"

  "I have told you, I am not afraid!"

  "Good," he said, his face already near hers. She could smell his nauseatingly sweet cologne and the pomade he had used on his hair, as well as the wax on his mustache. He had absurdly long droopy lashes for a man, and there was already wine on his breath, though it was only ten o'clock.

  Clara's whole being revolted against him, and she moved her face away so that he had to let go of the bridle to put his arm around her waist as he tried to kiss her.

  Turning back to him Clara put her hand on his chest and pushed him away. Her riding stick was in her other hand and she used it to hit the flank of his horse sharply with a loud cry.

  The horse started nervously, then bolted, and the Baron shouted in fright. Clara watched as the man swayed perilously in his saddle, trying to grab the reins that had fallen from his hand to stop the animal's mad race.

  She started laughing very hard; she could not help it. She didn't care if the story were all over Lisbon soon, as it would be a good warning to any other shameless rakes. Let them all look to themselves, she thought mutinously. One of them may even end up dead!

  No one should touch me but Gabriel, she said to herself as she rode back to her mother. No one ever will! She hoped that Ramos would be ashamed enough not to appear again, not even to glower at her for almost killing him and then laughing. When she returned to Juliana, she showed her puzzlement with a frown.

  "Where is the Baron?"

  "He just suddenly bolted," Clara said angelically.

  "Why? That makes no sense!"

  Juliana walked out onto the path and stood with one hand on her waist, covering her eyes to see if she could make out where the rich and noble suitor might be.

  "Were you rude to him?" she asked Clara.

  The girl looked down at her mother and saw that her eyes were full of greed and fear. Her own anger paradoxically abated. Juliana did not even realize what she was doing, such was her anxiety over the fate of Portugal and her own aging daughter. She did not realize that Clara would end up ruined if she continued these efforts to throw her in the arms of any unscrupulous man, as long as he was rich.

  Clara looked at her mother with pity, and then Napoleon came to her aid.

  Eight. Escape

  All plans to get Clara married were put aside when what Pedro had said would happen did happen. On November 24, the prince got hold of a copy of the Parisian newspaper Le Moniteur, where the new Emperor of France announced that the house of Bragança had ceased to reign in Europe. In terror, John suddenly decided that he would take the advice of the British, and he would leave for Brazil immediately.

  The departure was set for the 27th, and sent many important households into panic as they threw their belongings into trunks.

  At Pedro's house a task already terrible ─ to say goodbye to one's home, possessions, friends, servants ─became even more difficult as Juliana shrieked against the prince, the British, Napoleon, her husband, her daughter and Brazil.

  "What are you doing?" she screamed at Clara when she saw the girl placing books inside her trunk. "Where do you think you are taking those useless things?"

  Clara looked determined. There had been nothing but strife between them for years, but now, as they faced terrible uncertainty, she would take what was precious to her. "They aren't useless, I need them! There is no printing press in Brazil, there are no books there!"

  Incensed, Juliana stepped forward and started grabbing the books and throwing them against the wall, "You'll not take this nonsense! You'll take your clothes, the dresses your father paid for, your jewels ─ the things that will make you pretty so someone will still marry you!"

  "Marry, marry, marry!" Clara shrieked back at the top of her voice, her face a mask of fury. "I won't marry anyone, there! Are you happy now?"

  "Don't you scream at your mother!"

  "Leave me alone!"

  There was, for the first time, a physical struggle between mother and daughter. Clara was so beside herself that she pushed Juliana, who was smaller and weaker than her, out of the room, then slammed the door and locked it.

  "Pedro! Pedro!" Juliana cried. "Your daughter has laid her hands on me!"

  Pedro heard the screaming and put his head in his hands. Did they not understand what was happening? When he finally made Juliana see that they were about to lose everything, she proceeded to start sewing the gold she had bought throughout the years, and kept in a hole in the wall, into her petticoats and Clara's.

  Strong rains that only made everyone more nervous delayed the court’s departure by two days. The 27th of November was a beautiful blue day with a balmy breeze blowing, and a procession of hundreds of carriages started going down to the docks by dawn, riding over the mud of previous days. By the time Pedro had collected his wife and daughter and they began moving as well, the people in the street had understood that their queen and prince were running away, and leaving them to the French.

  Juliana screamed when a rock was thrown against the carriage, then another. "We'll be murdered! And by our own riff raff!"

  At the dock the scene seemed like the final judgment. There were so many people that they could hardly move, and a great number of trunks were lined up, with a servant or a member of a family guarding them. But everything was already being opened by sailors and officials, who told the desperate noble families that they could not take most of their things.

  "Look, Pedro, they have to leave trunks behind. I will not leave anything behind!"

  Juliana sat on a trunk to make it impossible for the inspectors to open it. She motioned for Clara and Pedro to sit on theirs as well. Pedro ignored her; his eyes were scanning the ships available. "If people don't leave things behind, the ships will sink," he said grimly. He even wondered whether there would be room for them.

  When the inspector came to say that they needed to take only what was essential, Juliana at first resisted, then she went straight to Clara's trunk, opened it and began to take books out and throw them backwards in the air.

  Clara did nothing. She understood now the enormity of what was happening by the amount of people on the dock. It wasn't just the royal family and their closest employees leaving, it was anyone who could.

  She looked around at almost the whole of Portuguese nobility ─at judges, lawyers, rich tradesmen, bishops, priests. She saw Voges consoling his mother and sisters as they clutched boxes that probably held their jewels, and wept over open trunks. Several of her ardent suitors were losing most of what they had tried to take with them: paintings, carpets, china, silver, clothes.r />
  Clara glanced back at the hills of Lisbon: and what about the people? What would happen to them? What would happen to their own servants and friends? What would be their fate, if the French invaded? What if the British decided to bomb the city from their powerful ships, little caring if the inhabitants of Lisbon lost their lives, as long as their navy destroyed the enemy?

  She let her mother weep over the trunks containing almost everything that she valued, which lay open and would not be allowed on board. Clara walked to the edge of the water and looked at the ships there, over fifty of them.

  The water flowed over the Tagus, and it would take them across the ocean, into the vast, savage, unknown land of Brazil.

  Nine. The Crossing

  Crossing the Atlantic took two months, and almost every minute was hell.

  Clara and her family were traveling with other bureaucrats in the employ of the prince, on a ship called Margarida. There were over one thousand people aboard the old vessel, which had not been built to provide comfort. Many of the able-bodied passengers had to sleep on deck, while the older men, women and children huddled together in the cabins.

  A few days into the voyage, still in the North Atlantic, terrible storms raged, throwing freezing water onto the crowded deck which seeped to the cabins below. The ship swayed to one side and then the other under enormous waves, or its prow slammed on the hard sea as it came down. Most people were violently sick, including Juliana and Pedro.

  Thankful for her own strong stomach, Clara held her mother's or her father's head as they vomited, and it seemed as if their insides would come out, such was the violence of their heaving. With Juliana so helpless and ill, Clara felt compassion for her mother again, and comforted her through terrible nausea and chills as the tempest continued for several days. They all feared that they would die, or be hopelessly parted from the rest of the convoy.