THE MAMELUCO DANCE

’T WAS night, and bowered amid tall, feathery palms,
Belem the Beautiful by moonlight slept,
And o’er the red-tiled roofs that lay aslant,
Flecked with the swaying shadow of the trees,
Came faint, low music, and the rhythmic chime
Of many feet, that, through the tropic night,
Untired, untiring, shook the trellised vines
That veiled the lattice windows; and the voice,
Wild, pleading, passionate, of him who played
The primitive zambrina, broke at times
Upon the midnight cadence of wild sounds,
And as the pleading passion of his song
Came o’er the dancers, one and all joined in
For a brief verse, and a low wail arose,
And passed away, as ’twere a spirit’s cry.
Idly I swung my hammock to and fro,
Wooing the sleep that came not. What to me
Were Mameluco dances? What cared I
For wild Cabano songs that mourned the time
When Vinagre and Malcher led the hosts
Of the Cabanos, and the streets that slept
So peacefully by moonlight were the scenes
Of butcheries at which the soul recoils?
Or what to me the desolate wail of those
Who mourned the dusky warriors from the isles
Of Amazonas? And I turned and strove
To shut all thought of wild Cabano chiefs,
All sound of song or dance, far out of mind.
In vain. For, ever as the silence fell,
The constant, low, unceasing monotone
Of the zambrina smote upon the ear,
Mixed with the chiming cadence of the dance.
While ever and anon the passionate wail
Of the Cabano chorus, in a key,
Minor and mournful, thrilled my northern blood
To most unwonted heat.

Why should I strive
For sleep that would not come? Here was a phase
Of human life and passion, little known
To all the many writers whose deft pens
Have chronicled the wonders and wild scenes
Of Amazonas. I arose and donned
Such clothing as a northerner may need
Within the tropics. Lightest fabrics serve,
In this warm clime, so that they be but clean,
And worn, ev’n as the morals of the land,
Loosely but gracefully.

I sought the gate,
And was admitted by a courtly slave
Whose bow had won the heart of Chesterfield.
A rustic house, whose many-latticed walls
Gave freest scope to all of air that stirred
Beneath the swaying palms. A heavy door,
Swinging ajar to such as might approach
With courteous word and mien. An earthen floor;
A long, quaint room, and latticed-windows, where
Strange vines and gorgeous roses intertwined
Sighed to the soft sea-breeze. A scent of flowers,
Faint but delicious; and a dusky band
Of rude musicians, who all night kept up
The tune untiring, with the startling wail
Of Tupi chorus changefully thrown in.
A medley of wild faces and lithe forms;
A waving sea of dancers, whose free grace
Was like the leisure of a petted swan.
And much of simple love, and courtesy
That seemed a thing inborn, were shown by all.
Hard by the door that opened to the hall,
There stood a broad, low-spreading palm whose shade
Made blackest midnight; and, from underneath
The feathery leaves a scowling face with dark,
And serpent eyes, peered ever and anon
Within the room, watching the changing dance
Much as a waiting python eyes his prey.

The evil, vengeful face was naught to me,
Yet, such a face once seen will haunt the soul,
Like the vague trouble of a shapeless dream.
I joined the dusky throng, and straightway felt
The wild, strange chorus stir my Saxon blood,
As when a cry of anguish wakes the ear
Upon the middle of the quiet night.

It was a simple measure that they danced,
Well suited to the drowsy monotone
Of the zambrina, played by native hands,
Save when the chorus rose, and Malcher’s name
Raised Tupi blood to frenzy. Then they swayed
As bends the forest to a sudden gale,
Dancing with tight clasped hands, and eager eyes
Bent on the roof above;—a moment thus,
Then, as the wail died out, they once again
Resumed the easy step and languid mien,
While glances from dark eyes, and meaning looks
Changed with the changing mazes of the dance.

There is a nameless charm about these girls,
With their dark eyes, and masses of black hair
Falling disheveled over shapely neck
And bust a duchess might be proud to own.
A grace of mien and manner, seldom seen
Where fashion sets the bounds, and stiff-backed men
Bow, after a set form, to courtly dames,
Who sink all lines of female grace, to grace
A graceless fashion of a graceless time.

Among the dancers there were two who stood
Pre-eminent o’er all the rest, in form,
In feature, and the nameless winning charm
That makes Eve’s sons and daughters lovable.
The one, a dusky maiden from the isle
Of Oncas; lithe and tall, with waving hair,
Ink-black, and falling o’er, in glossy waves,
A pair of shoulders, such as might have graced
The love of Anthony for Egypt’s queen.
Her mate, a dark eyed Vaquero, who roamed
A lord among the herds of Marajo.
I only noted that he had a form
Of manly comeliness, vouchsafed to few;
A fierce, free manner, such as suits with those
Who throw the lasso, and whose lives are passed
Among wild beasts and wilder, fiercer men,
Upon the treeless campos. Courteous too,
He was; but that is little in a land
Where courtesy is natural to all.
These two, the maiden and her cavalier,
Had eyes or words but for each other. One
May find such cases in the land where suns
Are hot and constant, and the sultry clime
Sends mischief coursing through the veins of men
No less than women.

Two short days before,
And he who scowled beneath the spreading palm
Had sought the favor of the queenly girl
In vain. Her love was lavished on the man
Who wore the scarlet sash and silver spurs
That mark a rider chief of Marajo.

’Twas in the small hours of the early morn,
When wearied with the dance they paused to rest
And drink, as is their wont, and raise the song
And wailing chorus for the dusky dead
Who sleep in nameless graves along the banks
Where Alta Amazorias meets the sea.
The song was of the rudest; yet it had
A simple pathos, such as may be heard
Where’er the Tupi tongue is understood,
Or the Tapuyo treasures up his wrongs,
To pour them out in wild impassioned rhythm.
And there was something in the mournful wail
That spoke the cadenced language of despair.
No savan I, nor skilled in any tongue
Save the plain English that I learned to lisp
Beside a mother’s knee. If I translate
Too rudely or too freely, be the fault
On me, and me alone. The Vaquero,
With rich, deep voice that suited well the man,
Chanted the body of the simple song,
While all joined in the chorus, and the wail
Rose like a Celtic Keenah for the dead.

We sing the noble dead to-night
Who sleep in jungle covered graves,
We sing the brave who fell in fight
Beside the Amazona’s waves,
The white man counts us with his beasts,
And makes our girls the slaves of priests.
Woe, woe for the Cabano!

Our war canoes came down the stream,
We stormed their hosts at Cam-e-ta;
Obidos saw our lances gleam.
We swept their forces at Para,
But English ships were on the waves.
And still our girls are serfs and slaves.
Woe, woe for the Cabano!

We drove them from the Tocantins,
We swept them from the Tapajoz.
A feeble race with feeble means,
Our courage conquered all our foes.
But English ships and English men
Have made us serfs and slaves again.
Woe, woe for the Cabano!

We were a fierce avenging flood
That no Brazilian force could stem.
We reddened all their towns with blood,
From Onca’s isle to Santarem,
But ah, our best are in their graves
And we again are serfs and slaves!
Woe, woe for the Cabano!

Accursed be the war canoe
That bore the wily Joachim;
And God requite the Mundurucu
Who slew our sires at Santarem.
For on their heads shall rest the guilt
Of Indian blood by Indians spilt.
Woe, woe for the Cabano!

NOTE—Cabanos, dwellers in cabins.

The song was ended, and the dancers stood
With hands upraised and eyes turned heavenward,
When he who watched beneath the spreading palm
Entered the room with swift and noiseless tread,
Stole on the dancers with an Onca’s step,
Dealt on the Vaquero two swift, light blows
That fell between the clavicle and ear,
Then vanished into darkness with a speed
That mocked pursuit. ’Twas done so quietly,
So quickly, and the blows were such mere taps,
That I could scarcely deem the whole a thing
Of serious import; but, I wronged the man.
He had more skill in murder than I thought.

The Vaquero with quick, convulsive start,
Flashed from its sheath a keen Damascene blade,
But all too late. The murderer was away.
And the bright life blood welled in crimson jets,
While, drawn to his full height, the rider stood
A moment, as the scarlet tide o’erflowed
The velvet doublet, gaudy sash, and thence
Adown the wide slashed trowsers to the spurs;
Then slowly sank upon the earthen floor,
With head soft pillowed on the swelling breast
That wrought his ruin.

’Twas a ghastly sight.
The queenly maiden with her snowy robes
Drenched crimson in the life-blood of the man
Who held her heart. Wildly she strove to staunch
The intermitting tide that kept strange pace
With every heart-beat, lavishing meanwhile
Terms of endearment and wild words of love
Upon the dying man, whose paling lips
Answered with love again.

Short shrift had he.
Two gaping wounds, the least of which might let
The strongest life out in a short half hour,
Soon sped him on the road whence none return.
The well turned head, with its broad, open brow,
Sank heavy on the blood bespattered breast
That beat for him alone. The ashy lips
Strove vainly to articulate a prayer,
Or, it might be, a last fond word of love;
But, even as he strove, with gasping breath
The soul went out.

There was the usual fuss
That Latin races make about their dead.
Firstly a priest, with shaven crown and dull,
Lack-luster eye, mumming some papish rite
O’er the unheeding clay. A surgeon next,
Striving to split the difference which lay
Betwixt his dignity and need of haste.
Also, he may have been somewhat in doubt
About his fee. Then the police, who made
An absurd pretense of awakened zeal,
Searching vine-covered arbors and old walls,
Peering in ruined buildings, and about
The orange groves and gardens, knowing well
The man was in the jungle, and they might
With equal thrift attempt to ferret out
A needle in a field of drifting sand.

Two ancient negresses with staring eyes,
Long, skinny arms, and hands like vultures’ claws,
Removed the clotted blood and dried the floor.
Four Topugos bore off the murdered man,
Preceded by the priest, and at his side
The maiden, in her blood-bedraggled robes.
The dancers took their places as before;
And, as I sought my hammock, there arose
The same zambrina’s tinkling monotone,
Timing the rhythmic tread of dancing feet.