Conquistadora - Esmeralda Santiago [192]
Doña Almudena and Angustias began to order the servants while Miguel and Manolo had a tall cool glass of mamey-water spiced with rum.
“I’m glad you didn’t try to get to Hacienda los Gemelos tonight. I didn’t want to say anything at first, but we’ve had disturbing news. Presidente Lincoln was assassinated ten days ago. We learned about it earlier today, and the cabildo has alerted everyone to be especially vigilant.”
“Now I understand why there are so many soldiers,” Miguel noted.
“You can’t be too careful. Betances and his ilk are likely to make a martyr out of Lincoln. The slaves already worship them both.”
Miguel nodded but said nothing. Another pang of guilt made him adjust the tightness of his cravat.
“Please, Manolo,” Angustias said, with an indulgent smile, “the authorities have the situation under control. Let’s enjoy our evening without such anxieties.” She turned to Miguel. “Mamá and I are beside ourselves with curiosity. Won’t you share some stories about your travels?”
THE FIRE CALLS
Earlier that evening, at around the same time as Miguel was sketching the woman waving to him from the beach, Ana found her usual spot on the balcón to watch the sun go down. A strong wind rustled leaves and creaked branches, but an afternoon rain had emptied the sky. As the sun dropped into the sea, frogs chirped, toads croaked, insects buzzed, owls hooted. Thrilling life pressed its evening cacophony around her. Sparks whirled over the boiling-house chimney toward a shrouded, attenuated moon. Other than the lights around the mill, the valley was an expanse of impenetrable darkness. The landscape was black and flat as a tabletop, but from Ana’s perch at El Destino, with the forested mountains to the north and east, the valley appeared like the bottom of a dark bowl about to spill its contents into the Caribbean Sea.
“Disculpe, doña Ana.” Meri came to the balcón. “Shall we serve your dinner?”
“No, I’ll wait until my husband comes home.”
“That’s just it, señora. A boy came to let you know that el patrón is not coming. He sent this message.” Meri handed Ana a scrap torn from the ledgers where the foremen kept track of the laborers’ hours. It was folded several times, and inside, the writing was scribbled in a hurry.
“American president murdered. Guards will be out all night.”
Ana had to sit down.
“Is something wrong, señora?”
Ana shook her head, but her mind was racing. News traveled quickly through the barracks. Certainly, Lincoln’s assassination had probably reached El Destino’s workers before Severo’s message reached her. Ana was suddenly aware that the vast house behind her was strangely empty.
“Where is everybody?”
“They’re all eating in the back, señora.”
Just then, an enormous tongue of flame rose into the sky over Finca San Bernabé. Ana jumped from her rocker and leaned over the railing as if to fly over it.
“What is it?” Meri instinctively reached to keep Ana from falling.
“Fire in San Bernabé.”
“They set fire to the cane all the time, señora.”
“I know the difference between a controlled burn and that.” Ana pointed to the flames, growing and spreading quickly. “San Bernabé is a farm, not cañaveral.”
Conciencia appeared. “¡Señora!”
“I see it, Conciencia.”
The three women stood on the balcón watching the flames weave and dance in sparkling bursts of yellow, red, orange, blue.
“It won’t burn for long,” Meri said. “It rained this afternoon.”
“Not there,” Conciencia said.
They watched for some time as the blaze spread. Ana pointed her telescope in its direction. “It’s completely out of control.”
“No bell,” Conciencia noted, and it was true. Even from here, they should have heard a warning to the neighbors about the fire and calls for help.
Ana scanned the night. On the