Conquistadora - Esmeralda Santiago [32]
The activity in the batey seemed chaotic, but Ana recalled from her reading that there was a strict order to how things were done, and that there was urgency in crushing the cane and boiling its juice as soon as possible after it was cut because the stalks decayed quickly.
“That must be the trapiche,” Ramón said as they neared the windmill.
“Sí, señor, that’s where the stalks are pressed, with wind power supplemented by cattle. Those big wooden rollers extract the juice.”
“And that’s the bagasse, is that right?” Ana said.
Severo looked back at her. “Sí, señora. The by-product is the bagasse. We feed it to the cattle, and also use it for mulch.”
Now that he knew she was listening, he spoke louder and turned his head to make sure that Ana and Inocente could hear him. “Next to the trapiche is the boiling house where the juice is reduced into crystals in that series of copper kettles.” He stopped, as if he’d forgotten something. “I’m sorry. Perhaps this is too much now, after your long journey?”
“No, it’s fascinating, isn’t it, Inocente?”
“Very interesting,” Inocente said. “Please go on.”
Severo nodded and continued. “Next to the boiling house is the purgery. Those long trays cool the crystals and allow the syrup to drain into barrels. When the sugar is dry enough, it’s formed and packed into one-thousand-pound hogsheads for market.”
“As I understand it,” Ramón said, “the molasses is used for the production of spirits.”
“Yes. Most hacendados keep some to make liquor for their own consumption, but most of it’s sold to distilleries with the equipment to process quantities for market.”
The plantation had been neglected for years; its machinery was ancient. The windmill was on a low rise, its enormous blades in need of repair. The boiling house, purgery, barns, and outbuildings were patched haphazardly, with huge gaps where the boards were either not long enough or rotted. They rode past the cuarteles of the unmarried slaves, two rectangular buildings separated by a dusty courtyard where hens picked at the ground. Behind the barracks, several small, thatch-roofed shacks housed married couples and their children. Behind and around the quarters, random gardens were tended by children too young to work in the campo, and by old men and women too feeble to do much else.
Ana forced herself to inhale deeply and to let her unsettled nerves subside. Most of the slaves were old and bent over at the waist, as if the loads they’d carried over the years still pressed upon their backs. Several were missing ears, fingers, hands, or arms below their elbows. Some were hobbled, their ankles and feet turned into unnatural shapes. The adults were dressed in rags; the small children were completely naked, their bellies puffed over stick-thin legs.
As they approached the living quarters, Ana was further dismayed that the grand house was in no better condition than the work buildings or the people. The casona was two stories high, with an exposed porch around the second floor accessible by two sets of rough-hewn stairs, one in front and another in back, near the ground-floor kitchen shack.
“Most of the lower story,” Severo explained, “is for storage. There’s also a room for the house servants.”
Ana blinked in the midday sun. She was stunned at the rustic house, built from unfinished boards nailed to exposed timbers. The interior dividing walls didn’t reach to the ceiling or to the wide plank floor. The ceiling was lined with narrow slats below the corrugated metal roof. A bright green lizard the size of one of her shoes clung upside down to one of the boards, defying gravity. The doors and windows were tall shutters that opened to the porch and were kept closed by sliding a thick pole through iron hooks. Furnishings in the rooms were sparse: a small rectangular table with benches in the dining room, another two benches in the living room, and a table and stool in the study. The walls were recently painted, and the smell of resin hung in the air. Every room was a pale,