When Brazil declared war against Portugal, a young woman enlisted the help of her family to go to war in secret—disguised as a man.

OCTOBER 1822

Maria Quitéria de Jesus, 30, ran from the cotton field and into the farmhouse, dripping sweat in the summer heat of the sertão, the desert-like interior of northwest Brazil in the region of Bahia. She crouched at the top of the stairs, remaining out of sight as her father, Gonçalo, conversed with a man dressed in full royal regalia. Maria tucked her dark blue tafetá skirt under her heels and listened. 

The visitor, an emissary of Emperor Dom Pedro I, came bearing news from the capital. Only a few weeks prior, Emperor Pedro attempted to sever Brazil’s ties to Portugal, looking to end its status as a colony. The Portuguese rebuked the move. For a small country like Portugal to compete with other European powers with economic satellites around the globe, Brazil was essential. To counter Pedro, strict orders were sent from Libson to the Portuguese army in Brazil: keep control over the Brazilian people. 

But the Brazilian leadership refused to stand down. They were committed to following the lead of many of their neighboring countries that had recently established their independence—all from Spain. Emperor Pedro sent out a call to recruit soldiers. 

The emissary read the decree aloud: The Portuguese wished to enslave and persecute us. As of today, our bonds end. By my blood, by my honor, by my God, I swear to bring about the independence of Brazil. Brazilians, let our watchword from this day forth be “Independence or Death!”

The emissary asked if Maria’s father or any male in his family would volunteer to fight against the colonial oppressors. Gonçalo explained he had no sons. For years, he prayed for sons, something he reminded Maria about often. He had seven daughters, but his only son, with his first wife, had died in infancy. Gonçalo would wait for the final result of the war and be a loyal subject to either victor. Like most farmers in the region, he thought little about national governance as long as the rulers did not meddle with their lands and their townships.

Maria hung on every word from atop the stairs. “I felt my heart burning in my breast,” she recalled later. Fighting for Brazil’s independence, being a part of the war against the Portuguese—that idea was thrilling.

As the emissary made toward the door, Maria bolted from her hidden spot. “It’s true, father,” she said. “You do not have a son. But I know how to handle weapons and hunting is no nobler than fighting for our country… Please, let me go to aid in such a noble fight!”

Gonçalo studied his daughter for a moment before replying. “Women spin, weave and sew. They do not go to wars.”

The emissary smiled warmly and praised her patriotism and bravery, but before he could say anything more, Gonçalo escorted him out. He then turned to Maria and told her she did not have the time for idle fantasizing. There was plenty to do on the farm, taking care of the cattle and overseeing the cotton crops.

For years, Maria witnessed the waning support for Portuguese occupation of Brazil. Violence between the two sides ramped up in Bahia, where the Portuguese maintained troops and governance. As the hostility and efforts by the Portuguese to silence any dissidents grew, so did the desire among the Brazilian people for independence. Earlier that same year, a nun, Joana Angélica, refused an intrusion by Portuguese soldiers into her Bahia convent. This resulted in her being brutally murdered—the horrific event became a local rallying cry. 

Maria balked at the expectations of how Brazilian women, especially those in rural pockets, were supposed to behave. Be obedient, be subservient, be quiet. She could not accept why she was never taught to read, or why most people, men and women alike, agreed she and her sisters were not meant to make an impact in their town, let alone their country. 

Facing her father, she decided she had heard enough. There would be no convincing her father through debate and argument. She would have to fight in this war and make herself into the leader, even if it meant risking everything to defy the system holding her back. 

That night, Maria snuck out of the house to head to her younger sister’s home. Teresa, was expecting her first child with her husband, José. In some ways she would be the least likely ally, making it a risk to confide in her, but she was also Maria’s best hope for a co-conspirator. 

Since childhood, Teresa was the perfect daughter—Maria’s opposite—reliably following the rules their father set for them and their five other sisters. The sisters were known for sharing mysterious eyes and long hair, but Maria had silkier brown hair and darker eyes. Maria viewed herself as a disappointment to her father. While Teresa and the other girls had spent most of their time indoors, Maria explored the surrounding wilderness. She learned to handle weapons and ride wild horses. Her mother, who came from one of the local indigenous communities, had abetted Maria’s misadventures from the time she was old enough to walk. She died when Maria was still a child. When her father remarried, Maria’s stepmother was adamant: girls should not use weapons nor explore the outdoors. 

When she reached Teresa’s house, Maria was frazzled, talking fast, sputtering through an account of what had happened with the emissary and their father. None of it was surprising to Teresa, considering their father’s history of controlling their lives. This had particularly impacted Maria, who had never been able to shake the memory of a young man named Gabriel Pereira de Brito. The two had been in love as teenagers and planned to marry. But when the time came for Maria’s father to give his approval, he said the boy was too poor and ill-equipped. Maria had little interest in any of the other men in the area; she’d be alone in the years that followed and scolded by her family as Teresa and her other sisters married and started families. 

This time, Maria would not back down. She told Teresa: I will join this fight, one way or another.

If Teresa balked at Maria’s ideas, either out of fear for Maria or for their family’s reputation, she could go right to their father and sabotage her dream. But despite the differences in their life choices, Teresa had always understood Maria on a deep level. As extreme and implausible as Maria’s plan was, Teresa expected nothing less. 

The enthusiasm was infectious. “If what you’re saying is true,” Teresa said, “I’d probably want to join the fight as well.” They laughed at the thought of Teresa, about to have a baby, putting on a soldier’s garb. Together they formulated a plan: Maria would cut her hair short, and Teresa could secure one of her husband’s old uniforms.

In the small house that night, Teresa binded Maria’s breasts, stomach and waist by wrapping her tightly in a cloth and tying just above the shoulders. José’s old military uniform was four sizes too big, so they cut and tore the uniform at the seams and sewed it back together. It was still clunky and too wide, but it would have to suffice. Then they dealt with her hair. While Maria sat as still as possible on a wooden chair, Teresa cut her hair down to a few inches. It was uneven, with some stray curls falling around her ears. José was shocked, walking in on his sister-in-law, draped in one of his uniforms with an uneven haircut, stray curls falling around her ears.

Even with a ragged cut and a lumpy old uniform, a new version of Maria came into view, one that could pass as a man and do as she pleased, stripping away every restriction that she lived by.

The next day, Maria and her brother-in-law José traveled 50 miles to the Regimento de Artilharia, the artillery regiment. The military effort on the ground in Brazil already included a medley of personnel, with Dom Pedro engaging mercenaries from England and France. Local volunteers had responded in force to the call to fight, but they were still outnumbered and needed help from all corners of the world if they had a chance to repel the Portuguese loyalists. Still, however varied the troops and officers, they were all men. 

As the soldiers looked up and down at the new prospect in the old uniform, Maria and José had to remain calm. The men asked her for her name. 

“Private Medeiros,” she said, “the young son of José Cordeiro de Medeiros.”

The choice to pretend to be the son of her brother-in-law carried a quiet subtext. Maybe if her father had been more open-minded, more like José, she would never have needed to go behind his back. If her father had been less intransigent, she would not hide the pursuit of what she wanted--and not only when it came to fighting for Brazil. She might have been married to Gabriel by then. 

There had been women of almost mythic proportions throughout history who had disguised themselves to fight in wars, including Joan of Arc in 15th century France and Deborah Sampson in the American Revolutionary War. These figures were unlikely to cross the mind of Maria, who was not looking to become a legend. She just wanted to do her part for Brazil. But now that Maria stood before the heavily armed force, the immediate risks to her safety became real. For millennia, militaries, even revolutionary ones, enforced strict rules, at the discretion of officers, against soldiers who made misrepresentations or attempted fraud. Maria could be risking incarceration and public shame for herself and her family. Teresa and José, who had crossed lines to support her dream, would be directly implicated.

But with her initial interview complete, Maria passed her first hurdle. The officers added Maria’s assumed name to their roster. If Maria Quitéria de Jesus could not help her country, maybe Private Medeiros could.

Though her circumstance was singular, Maria was not entirely alone. Other women in the region, also without clear access to the military, still sought to aid the fight for independence from the sidelines. After all, it was a travesty against a woman—the murder of the nun—that had stoked the region’s will to fight. One of the women looking to play a part was another Maria, Maria Felipa de Oliveira, a woman of African descent who was described by many as tall and strong. She was one of the vast majority of Brazil who had non-European heritages. She had escaped slavery as a child and lived in a poor, tight-knit fishing community on the Brazilian island of Itaparica, located at the entrance of Bahia, which in addition to Africans included traditionally overlooked indigenous peoples. The Portuguese troops long blocked their trade and impeded their way of life. Maria Felipa began to help organize her own version of a military unit, from the men and women on the island.

Back in the military camps in Bahia, Maria Quitéria felt she had to work harder than other recruits to prove to everyone, but mostly herself, that she belonged in the army. Private Medeiros’ knowledge of guns and weapons was more advanced than many of the other young soldiers. She was a superb marksman from long distance and could disassemble and put back together her weapons faster than some of her superiors. She went from trying to blend in to unwittingly standing out. Her confidence grew. For so many years, she had been scoffed at for spending time riding wild horses, hunting animals, and learning how to properly handle weapons. Now, she, or rather Private Medeiros, was respected and cheered by her peers. 

Not long after arriving, she was transferred to a special unit, the Batalhão de Voluntários do Príncipe D. Pedro, the Battalion of Volunteers of Prince D. Pedro. Private Medeiros received a special uniform, complete with green-colored cuffs and collar. Because of the distinctive color scheme, the unit was known as the Battalion of the Parakeets. 

She was assigned a patrol, watching the training camps for any sign of attack. Though not technically the front lines, it was close. A tactical mandate for the revolutionary army was to prevent the Portuguese forces from getting a foothold in the interior of Brazil, pushing their lines back to the sea. Maria and the other patrols had to stay vigilant at all times. To Maria’s surprise, in the early weeks of her new posting, she spotted a figure approaching the camp whom she recognized on sight, an intruder perhaps more heart stopping to her than a Portuguese soldier: her father. 

Gonçalo Alves de Almeida would admit to being a flawed man, a man who could be judged as stubborn and single-minded, but no one could question his love for family. He prized his family and his farm more than anything in life. When Maria ran off, he circled the town asking everyone he could find if they had seen her. He was overcome with worry. He could not understand why his daughter would leave without saying anything first. Then he remembered how she acted during the emissary’s visit; he remembered her burning desire to join the war.

To find her, Gonçalo would need to go all over Bahia and visit every single regiment in surrounding areas. He traveled the vast rolling hills and mountain passes in Tanquinho and the drought-stricken basin of São José. He met with the same answer every time, which must have seemed too obvious to state: no sign of any women disguised as soldiers. As he continued to travel, he began to hear rumors. There was a woman in the ranks, apparently, but everyone pointed to a different camp. Finally, Gonçalo heard of someone who other soldiers thought was a woman in the Battalion of the Parakeets. They were stationed not far from the farm.

When Gonçalo showed up, he laid eyes on “Private Medeiros.” Without hesitating, he demanded that his daughter put an end to her nonsense and come back home with him. Trying not to incite a commotion, Maria quietly refused, but her father was irate. However deeply he loved her, she had now threatened his authority as the head of their family. 

Gonçalo marched to the superior in charge, Major José Antônio da Silva Castro, 30, a ruddy man with a strong brow—because of the regiment’s colors under his charge, he had the nickname Periquitão, or Big Parakeet. 

Maria had to stand and wait for the two men to decide her fate. She could become an outcast or criminal, locked away in her father’s home for the rest of her life. Stories of women disguised as men across history often had unhappy endings, as epitomized by Joan of Arc being burned at the stake. Sometimes, the women faced as much danger from being discovered by their own troops as from their purported enemies.

She had to brace herself for the worst. As she expected, her father insisted that she be expelled from the army and he would take her home. But Major Silva Castro refused. Regardless of rules that had been broken, the major had discretion over his regiment. He told Gonçalo that Maria was skilled, disciplined and brave. She was exactly what the army needed to expel the Portuguese, and if they had to break tradition and allow a woman to fight in uniform, so be it. Gender did not determine military prowess. Intelligence, dedication and skill did. It was a  revolutionary idea.

Defeated, Gonçalo was left with no choice but to go back home. But if he held no sway with the military, he still could flex his muscle as the patriarch of his family. Before he departed the camp, he made his position clear to his daughter. In leaving the camp alone, he was turning his back on her. He told Maria she would have no place in his life or in their family anymore.

She thanked Major Silva Castro in what was a deeply bittersweet moment. In earning a place in her battalion, as herself, she had lost her family. But continuing on was what she felt was right. Very few, if anyone, knew it at the time, but she was now the first and only woman officially enlisted in the fight for Brazilian independence. 

However, there were terms for her to follow if she wanted to remain. She would no longer be allowed to dress as a man, the major explained to Maria’s surprise. She would not receive any special treatment. Maria accepted these conditions, asking only to modify her uniform’s prized green-colored cuffs and collar. She added a tartan kilt on top of her white pants, explaining that she “adopted it from a picture representing a [Scottish] highlander, as the most feminine dress.” Private Medeiros had been left behind for good. Now she was once again Maria Quitéria de Jesus, the newest and arguably proudest member of the Battalion of the Parakeets.

In the following months, as the war escalated across the country, the Battalion of the Parakeets would respond to developing local insights about the location of Portuguese troops. At one point in late October, they received word about an impending attack in the Ilha da Maré region, a large island in a crucial position for either side. They had to move quickly to protect the community of fishermen.

As Maria and the other soldiers marched on a road parallel to the shoreline, near the area of Pituba, the Portuguese ambushed them and they had to scatter. Maria reached for her gun, shooting and killing an attacker. The excitement of being a soldier had given way to the grim reality of war. She had done what she had to do to survive.

Six miles off the coast from Bahia at another fishing community, on the island of Itaparica, Maria Felipa, the former slave who was determined never to submit to Portuguese control, witnessed increasing incursions against their island. Commerce had ground to a halt, and now Portuguese troops occupied strategic parts of the island to stage operations against the mainland. Maria Felipa helped organize women who had decided, in a different way than Maria Quitéria, to break social mores. They organized a ring of women to seduce Portuguese soldiers, then coax them to the beach, away from the safety of their ships. Left unarmed, and in some cases naked, the men were beaten with cansanção, a local plant that produced a burning sensation; the women had turned the flora and fauna into weapons to repel the invaders. Maria Felipa, according to some, sang: “We will eat naughty boys with bread, give them a beating of cansanção, make the naughty die of passion.” In another community, women dressed as ghosts to scare away Portuguese soldiers by using their superstitions against them.

Back on the battlefields, as months passed, Maria Quitéria was hardened by the rigor of her military experiences. Even though she no longer hid her gender, she was able to fit in with the regiment and her fellow soldiers, even smoking cigars after her meals. She also learned more tactics, becoming less reliant on reacting and defter at planning and preparation. She reflected on the October Pituba ambush. They had never quite figured out how the Portuguese had gotten the jump on them. Rumors circulated that the Portuguese had used hidden trenches. 

She decided to call upon her hunting skills for which she had been derided as a child. On a warm February night in 1823, the Portuguese troops were her prey. Under the cover of night, Maria blended into her environment and searched. Using patience and meticulous observation, she found the location of the rumored trench, which allowed the enemies to keep out of sight. The hidden trenches were a perfect symbol of imperial rule--a mostly invisible but always present control over their lives--which was also analogous to Maria’s father’s control over her.

She turned the tables. The enemies’ concealment would lead them to feel secure, allowing for the potential to become careless. Maria waited until a pair of Portuguese soldiers came out of the trench, leaving behind their protection. This time she would leverage the element of surprise.

As those two soldiers stared down the barrel of her weapon, they had a fleeting moment to decide whether to reach for their own weapons. In locking eyes with Maria, they had to weigh whether a woman would really shoot them. Wisely, they surrendered. They now had time to process a twofold surprise: first, that they were being taken prisoner, and second, that they had been defeated by a female soldier.

As the war entered its second calendar year, there was no longer room to underestimate the local support for Dom Pedro. The Portuguese army had to identify areas to target with populations least likely to be willing to fight to the death for Dom Pedro and for independence, while also waiting for more troops sent by Libson.

Intelligence collected from prisoners like the ones taken by Maria gave the overmatched Brazilian army in Bahia tools to outwit and misdirect the military power wielded by General Ignácio. In large and small ways across Brazil, women helped undermine the imperial forces. Though the two Marias—Maria Quitéria and Maria Felipa—likely never met, the former’s military maneuvers could support the latter’s battles on the island of Itaparica, and the damages inflicted on the island blunted the troops’ resources on the mainland. When the Portuguese amassed ships at the island, Maria Felipa and her freedom fighters once again went into action. In addition to being physically formidable, Maria Felipa, by some accounts, was a master of capoeira, the Brazilian martial art that combined dance and combat. Those skills served to enhance her natural grace and stealth. Leading her peers along the coast, Maria Felipa helped burn more than 40 Portuguese ships. 

Portuguese General Ignácio, 47, had seen enough. Even if the Portuguese could apply undeniable force, even if they managed to eliminate Dom Pedro, the people would rise up with ever greater rage. Afraid of further losses, the embattled general wrote to Brazilian commanders and asked for permission to leave. In July 1823, when he departed for Portugal, Bahia erupted into a celebration.

The soldiers of the War of Independence, considered heroes to the population of Bahia, paraded through the streets of Salvador, the very first place where the Portuguese had settled. Among the soldiers Maria, dressed in her now-famous skirt, stood out, exuding pride in her accomplishments and those of her fellow soldiers. When onlookers spotted Maria, they would spontaneously break into applause and cheers. She was not just a hero—she was their hero. Though Maria Felipa of Itaparica did not share in the limelight at the time, she became a legend in her community over time, and it was said she was the first to raise a Brazilian flag in the settlement of the Ponta das Baleias.

When Maria Quitéria’s procession reached the Monastery Convento da Soledade, nuns offered laurel wreaths to the soldiers. One of the younger nuns placed a crown woven of green leaves she had fashioned by herself on the head of Maria. Pedro Labatut, one of the commanders of the Brazilian army, would proudly state that Maria “was a distinguished soldier of unspeakable value and intrepidity.”

On August 19, shortly after General Ignácio and his men went back to Portugal, Maria arrived at the city of Rio de Janeiro, where the royal family awaited her. Once again, crowds clamored to thank her, shake her hand, and she hardly knew what to do other than smile at them. 

One newspaper announced the troops’ arrival to meet the royal family: “Maria Quitéria de Jesus, born in the Freguesia de S. José das Itapororocas in this province [Bahia], after hearing her country was in danger and needed help, abandoned her parents, became a soldier and took up arms for our defense.”

Maria was welcomed into the palace, the home of the emperor and the empress. Henry Chamberlain, a British military painter who was also at the palace, sketched Maria, identifying her as “a Brazilian Amazon.” Emperor Dom Pedro presented Maria with the insignia of the Cavaleiros da Imperial Ordem do Cruzeiro, the Knight of the Imperial Order of the Cruise, awarded to the greatest personalities or heroes in the country. As another surprise gift, Maria received a sword and a customized blue uniform.

The emperor announced: “I grant you permission to use this insignia as a badge that displays the military services that, with rare bravery, you lent to the cause of the Independence of the Empire, in the glorious restoration of Bahia.” 

After thanking the emperor with tears in her eyes, Maria decided to ask something personal, related to her family. Pedro could understand complex family dynamics in their intense political environment, having waged the bid for independence against a homeland, Portugal, led by his father. He could understand the time for healing was coming.

“I've already done my duty as a Brazilian,” Maria said. “Now I fervently ask my emperor for a grace: an order for my father to forgive me for my disobedience, for having left my house to join the battlefield.”

Leaving behind the bustle of Rio, Maria made her way back to Bahia, to her father’s farm on the hill in Serra da Agulha. She had served and won. She had witnessed her home country begin to gain its independence (outside of Bahia, more battles remained in other regions of Brazil, where complete independence would be achieved the following year). But still, on some level, she wanted her father to believe she belonged in their family. En route to the farm, she disguised herself again in a standard military uniform so she would not be recognized by locals. As a public figure, Maria had attracted adulation that would long outlive her—more than a hundred years later, she would be named the patron of the Brazilian army. 

When she arrived, she spotted her sister, Teresa, speaking with their father, and other relatives. They noticed someone approaching. Once they realized it was Maria, the sisters ran to her, shouting her name with tears in their eyes. As they embraced, Maria felt her heartbeat ease. She then looked at her father and he turned his back, just as he had in the army encampment. He made his way toward the house.

But this time Maria took control, deploying her father’s own logic against him. Catching up with him in stride, she reminded her father that he had promised to be a loyal subject of whoever won the war. Since Emperor Pedro was victorious, he could not disobey an order from him. She showed him the emperor’s letter.

Through everything, Gonçalo did love his daughter. If he had been entirely honest with himself, he might have understood her desire to take control of her life, to want to be proud of herself. When he was young, he had left Portugal behind, left everything he ever knew, to start a new life in a different country, just as Maria had risked everything to embrace a new chapter in life.

When he finished reading the letter, his expression softened. There was uncertain emotional healing ahead of them as a family, but her presence was a start.

As the family continued to seek a new equilibrium, another reunion would await Maria. One day, from a distance, she spotted someone watching them. Gabriel Pereira de Brito stood on the road, gazing at the family. Maria quickly realized who it was, her first and only love at that point in her life. They had not seen each other in two decades. Gabriel looked shy and uncertain. Maria, too, was nervous, but she had a refreshed confidence in herself. She could have a chance at the love she wanted, as a fuller version of the woman she always saw in herself. Waiting for men to act—fathers or suitors or officials—had never gone far enough.

With the same speed and decisiveness she had shown as a soldier, she ran to the arms of her former lover, rekindling a relationship that would soon lead to marriage and a daughter--once more claiming control of her own choices. 

ANA FRANCO is a Brazilian journalist and author who loves digging up Brazil’s hidden history. She writes both nonfiction and fiction.

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