By the first of May, we had vaccinated twenty thousand and set up the Junta Central de la Vacuna so that there would always be vaccine available for the future generations. The last night before we were to leave, Captain-General Guevara threw a lavish banquet for us at his palace. The tables were covered with fruits and fine pastries. The boys claimed they counted forty-four plates of food at each service of which there were three. I had to keep a close eye on them to prevent them from overeating or stuffing food in their pockets. Poor dears. Once you have known need, its phantom hangs over any luxury.
After the tables were cleared, the entertainment began. A poet was introduced, a young man with the knowing eyes of an old man, who read a rather long ode—over two hundred verses! My boys grew restless. I was getting ready to round them up, but Don Francisco stopped me. There were servants enough to take care of the boys for this one night.
I was touched that he wanted me to stay to enjoy the evening with the rest of the expedition.
“You have kept us together,” Don Francisco acknowledged as he led me onto the dance floor. I had protested that I did not know how to dance, and he had smiled. “Neither do I, so we are well matched.”
But amazingly, my feet retained the memory of the steps I had danced as a girl. “As with other matters, you underestimate yourself, Doña Isabel,” Don Francisco complimented me. Was it time to ask him to call me Isabel?
His color was back, though he had not put on the weight he had lost. Still, the hospitality of our hosts, the good food and rest had restored him to his health. We should stay here forever, I thought, for as long as it lasts.
The music had ended, and a new spirited fandango was starting up. Dr. Salvany asked for this next dance, and though I pleaded that I was tired, he persisted and I indulged. “I am happy to see that all is mended between you and Don Francisco,” I mentioned during one of our spins around the room.
He lifted his eyebrows as if questioning the accuracy of my observation, but he was in good humor. Poetry brought out the best in him. “Wasn’t he marvelous?” I was still thinking of our director and so must have looked puzzled, because Dr. Salvany added, “The poet, Andrés Bello.”
I loved a poem, especially one set to music on a romantic theme. But a long ode to the vaccine …
“Do you think it would be too bold of me to show him my own productions?” Don Salvany was flushed with the exertion of the dance. He, too, had recovered, but there was still a fragile look to him.
“I should think he would be honored,” I offered.
Just then, the dance ended and we found ourselves standing near the poet. Dr. Salvany gave him a deep bow.
The poet bowed back. “Andrés Bello, a sus órdenes.”
That was all the invitation Dr. Salvany needed. “May I commend you on a true masterpiece of the pen and of the spirit.”
The color heightened on the young man’s cheeks. He had that glow of success, touched perhaps by shame of that success. How we feel when we are much feted and wonder if there is room for our darker nature in this bright acclamation.
“I hear that you have also written a theatrical work about us?” Dr. Salvany was all eagerness. “Venezuela salvada.”
“Consolada,” the poet corrected. “Venezuela consolada.”
I wondered if indeed a work with that title could be about us. Perhaps from now on, we would be a consolation to others. Perhaps it was good of this poet to write such a work. We might be forced to live up to the grand and noble passions his words would hold us to.
As Don Andrés Bello outlined the action of his theatrical piece to Dr. Salvany, I glanced toward our director, now seated at his place at the table, the bishop on one side, the captain-general on the other, his face radiant. I could not help thinking how I had seen him in all his many phases, noble and base, humble and vain, like a moon that wanes and disappears but returns again with its soft, insistent light.
When he glanced in my direction, he dropped his gaze as if embarrassed at being seen so nakedly.
I had not been the only one hiding my true face from the world.
The poet was introducing me to several prominent members of the city council. Dr. Salvany had gone off to retrieve his book of poems to show his newfound friend. “This is the guardian angel of the little carriers of the vaccine,” Don Andrés Bello was saying with a bow, “Doña Isabel López Gandarillas.”
Another name for me! By the time the expedition was over, I would have been so many Isabels.
Don Francisco was at my side, ready to escort me back to my seat. “You looked lost in that sea of Creoles,” he noted in a low voice. “I thought I had better come rescue you.”
I took his arm, indulging him in his role as my savior.
EN ROUTE TO CUBA: A large canvas with several scenes.
First, a busy port, a parting of ways: one group rows out to a ship, the other stays ashore.
Another scene shows the deck of that ship. A lone female passenger interrogates a lineup of children. Her face is a study of worry, dread, grief.
Last comes a panel depicting a lady conversing with the captain of the ship. The man weeps; the woman looks downcast into the deep. The stars are silvery and sweet, and yet the scene seems to be another one in this triptych of grief.
Upon leaving Venezuela, our expedition parted in two.
Our director had originally intended that the vaccinations in the territories of New Granada, Peru, and Río de la Plata would be conducted by his colleague from Spain, Dr. Verges, who had gone ahead to Bogotá several months before our expedition had set out. One of our members was to take the fresh vaccine we had brought across the ocean to Dr. Verges when we landed in Venezuela.
But the news reached us in Caracas that Dr. Verges had died of a mysterious fever. We were sobered in the midst of our celebrations. How many of us would be lost to our expedition? It was a question that loomed in my mind as we boarded the small boats that would conduct us out to the María Pita, waiting for us in the waters beyond the shallow bay. The ship would take us on to Cuba and Veracruz before returning to Spain.
On shore, we were leaving behind Dr. Salvany and three of our number: Dr. Grajales, Don Rafael Lozano, Don Basilio Bolaños. It crossed my mind that Don Francisco had separated out those members who had always shown partiality for his younger colleague. (How glad I was that Don Ángel, that pacifying angel of our expedition, had been retained in our group!)
Dr. Salvany was pale and looked almost frightened by his new commission. “Do you think he will succeed?” I found myself asking our director as the men on shore became smaller and smaller, toys, figments of our imagination.
Don Francisco sighed. “All he needs to do is continue south down the length of the Americas.” Our director raised a hand, parting the air easily in two.
But as we moved away, I saw in my mind’s eye the high peaks of the Andes and footpaths through dark jungles, the rapids and rivers and rocky falls. I wondered how easy the task would be for our young colleague in love with poetry.
Perhaps I sensed I would never see him alive again.
As for our own group, Dr. Balmis was taking no chances: he had petitioned for and been granted six boys to carry the vaccine from Venezuela to Cuba.
They were older boys, which made them both easier and more difficult for me to manage. The oldest was thirteen; the youngest, seven. They stayed together, avoiding our own children at first, for the Galician accent was foreign to their ears. But they all soon found plenty of naughtiness in common.
Among their mischief was tormenting our timid little Moor, Tomás Melitón. Even more than our own boys, these young Creoles teased the boy relentlessly, calling him negrito, and threatening to put him in a cask of lye to see if his color would come off and prove him the Spaniard he claimed he was.
Our third morning out at sea, I could not find the boy. I searched everywhere on the ship. But the child seemed to have vanished into thin air.
I lined up the boys and interrogated
them, threatening to punish all of them, no supper, no coming on deck to see the stars, no stories. There were guilty looks, but the most they would confess to was that they had been chasing Tomás, threatening to throw him in that cask. “But all it has in it is seawater, we swear—”
“No swearing!” I scolded. It was a battle I was losing, keeping the boys from cursing on a ship full of foul-mouthed sailors.
“Tomás!” we all shouted, sometimes individually, sometimes in chorus. My own voice tinged with increasing panic and despair.
Seven days out we found him by his smell. In his effort to evade his tormentors, he must have fallen down the steep ladder into the hold and drowned in the bilge water. Already the rats had made a meal of his soft flesh. I wept for the poor unfortunate, who had passed through this life without anyone cherishing him enough. Even my own love was composed largely of obligation.
Captain del Barco, who had become quiet and removed in his grief, found me on the quarterdeck that evening. He stood by me, saying nothing. We gazed out at the endless watery world, which now held two of our children.
“You seem to be the soul of this expedition, Doña Isabel. Tell me—” Our captain turned to face me. Though it was dusk, I wished I had my veil, so I could hide the uncertainty I always felt when a superior interrogated me. “Is it worth it?”
I wanted to tell him that it was a calculation we must never make: weighing lives against any cause. Orlando and Tomás had lost the only lives they had. There was nothing to balance against that loss. No platitude, no poetry.
“We must believe we are doing more good than ill,” I managed. I meant that it should always be a struggle to believe this. Otherwise, we would push ahead with certainty like our director or founder in doubts like Dr. Salvany. But my words sounded hollow even to my own ears.
CUBA—ARRIVAL IN HAVANA: In the distant bay, a ship drops anchor, while in the foreground, a welcome party assembles on the wharf. Yet another port scene.
A short, nervous man, his shirt misbuttoned, his hat in his hands. By his side a large, ballooning woman, children coming out from under her petticoats, points to a waiting carriage.
Behind them stretches the city of Havana with its irregular houses, their fronts painted red and pale blue. The parade of carriages leads to a commodious residence, which fills with dozens of boys. A pet monkey shrieks. Cages full of songbirds twitter. A frisky puppy barks and barks out of sheer exuberance. The cheer on all the faces tells that in this vale of tears pockets of paradise exist.
Our destination again eluded us, owing to a stormy sea. The eight-day journey took us eighteen days. But in spite of the fact that we were not expected, we were warmly greeted at the port of Havana by the governor, the Marquis of Someruelos, and a hastily assembled group of officials.
Right up front, without any subterfuge, the marquis informed us that the vaccine had preceded us to the island. It turned out that a Cuban lady had been visiting relatives in Puerto Rico and while there had taken the opportunity to have Dr. Oller vaccinate her young son and two servant girls.
Oller. Just the name made my heart stop. I dared not look over at our director. I braced myself for a repeat of our first landfall.
As if he knew no reason not to continue, the marquis went on with his explanations. Upon their return to Havana, the vesicles were ripe on all three children. Dr. Romay, their family doctor, took the opportunity to harvest the fluid and vaccinate the entire city. The dreaded epidemic that was spreading across the island had been averted.
A short man stepped forward, his cravat twisted, his buttons askew, a stain on his sleeve. He looked as if he himself had just been assembled hurriedly. “Dr. Romay,” he introduced himself. “Our esteemed governor gives me too much credit. I have done the best I could with little training in this field or supervision. So I am most grateful that your illustrious person and colleagues have arrived on our shores to review my work and improve upon my errors.” Then, with a smile that could win the devil back to goodness, he insisted that our director and expedition be lodged at his own house.
Five sons, from youngster to young man, came forward to second their father’s invitation, offering to take the smaller boys in hand, relieving me of the carpetbag I was carrying. A fat, open-faced woman directed them. She turned out to be the good doctor’s wife, Señora Romay. Her largeness was amplified by the voluminous skirts spread out around her. It seemed five more boys might issue from beneath them if she should sneeze or laugh too heartily.
Our director’s face was softening, won over, as who wouldn’t be, by such good-heartedness. “We are too many to burden any one household.”
Señora Romay declared that even twice our number would not be too many. “You will break my heart if you do not do me this honor, Don Francisco!”
There was no arguing with this kind clan. Already the Romay boys were loading the smaller boys into the waiting carriages. Señora Romay hooked her arm through mine. “You poor dear,” she commiserated. “I, too, live my life surrounded by men!” She smiled broadly, gap-toothed and proud of her brood.
Yes, I thought, but you have command over yours.
The very next day we began reviewing vaccinations and setting up a junta as we had done in Caracas. Thank goodness the outlying towns provided us with new carriers to spread the vaccine to the other parts of the island.
Benito loved Havana. He had found five older brothers in the Romay boys. I must say, my son was no longer the frightened, clinging waif of days gone by. In the small world of our expedition, he had become the special one with a mother along, a position I struggled to downplay. You are all my sons, I told them. But anyone could see—and children are especially adept at this—that I had a special weakness for my little Benito. “Let’s stay here, Mamá,” he pleaded.
“We have a mission to accomplish,” I explained, recalling a similar moment in Caracas, when I had wished to stay forever. “But perhaps we can come back later when it is over.”
But to a child the word later might as well be never. He pleaded and cried and finally our hostess’s words came out of his mouth, “My heart will break, Mamá.”
“Then we will put it back together again,” I said, trying hard not to smile, to take his small sorrows seriously.
And so, in spite of the fact that as in Puerto Rico, the vaccine had also preceded us here in Cuba, the warm welcome of our hosts, their honesty from the start, their deference to Don Francisco’s direction—all of this made a world of difference. Any request, the marquis was at our service. And Dr. Romay and his family continued in their many kindnesses.
In only one regard our hosts were unable to indulge us. We had been promised four boys to carry the vaccine from Havana to Veracruz. But days passed and no one would volunteer a child; unfortunately, the orphans at the local hospicio had all been vaccinated. It seemed that my Benito’s wish might come true after all, and here we would stay.
Frustrated, as only he could get, Don Francisco finally resorted to the only means he could think of. “I’ve bought them,” he told me when I asked about the three African girls, the oldest no more than twelve, who had been delivered at Dr. Romay’s back door in a cart one morning. “They will carry the vaccine to Veracruz. There I will sell them and recuperate my expense.”
“Bought them?” Why was I so surprised? I had seen the slave market in Tenerife. At our many hosts’ houses in San Juan, Caracas, here in Havana, any number of servant slaves had attended to our needs. Yet a new wind was blowing in the Americas. I could feel it all about me. On the way to Cuba, we had passed by Saint Domingue, avoiding the shore, for a revolt had taken place there and the slaves had freed themselves. I had felt a surge of fear—no doubt if seized, our white throats would be cut!—but I had also felt a secret surge of hope, this was as it should be, every one of us born free.
Out in the courtyard, the girls were moaning, begging to be returned to their families.
“We came to save all our brothers and sisters who have cried to
us in need.” I was repeating the very words our director had spoken to me months ago at the orphanage.
“This is necessity, Doña Isabel. I have no other recourse.” Don Francisco would not meet my eye. I could see him withdrawing, shutting the doors of his heart against my influence.
And so three Negresses joined our expedition, and at the last minute, the boy drummer of a local regiment was thrown in for good measure by the marquis. Perhaps I was wrong to question our director’s choice. He had merely brought out in the open what my moral delicacy had sought to hide. How free had my own boys been to choose their destiny? Whether they were slave girls or orphan boys, our mission’s success depended on those who had ever carried the burden of sacrifice—the poor, the powerless, the helpless, among them the children I myself had compromised in order to join the expedition.
Until late that night, I could hear the girls wailing, Mercy! Mercy! I went down several times thinking to comfort them with treats or a song or a story. But they pushed away the sweets I offered. They cried when I sang and wailed when I spoke. They wanted nothing from me but what I had failed to secure for them, enough freedom to remain with their enslaved families.
NEW SPAIN—PARTING IN VERACRUZ: A man and a woman in private interview. The man is tall, well formed, no youngster. Only his head seems not to have been drawn to scale, too small, too delicate for such a stalwart figure. He is awkward before the woman who regards him with a kind smile.
And she, a mature lady—these are not young lovers, stormy with desperation—has a handsome figure as well. Her face is freckled … or pocked? Perhaps the painter has not yet made up his mind whether she will be handsome or homely, old or young.
In the miniature over her shoulder, we see her riding a mule train into the mountains, a trail of boys, two to a mount behind her. As for the man, we see him board a miniature ship blown by Aeolus with his puffy cheeks across the ocean to Spain, which is just now bursting into flames.
We were greeted in the port of Veracruz with what should now have been accustomed news. The vaccine had preceded us to New Spain.