Gene Wolfe - Pirate Freedom

She leaned toward Novia confidentially. "They were frightened to death, Senora. That is what I think. Some so frightened they died, some leaped overboard rather than face the ghost. Their expressions were most horrible."

Naturally I wanted to know how she knew that, if she had not been allowed to see them.

"He told me, Senor. Jose told me. He saw them all. Their faces were hideous, he said."

"Only not Senor Guzman, right? He didn't see him?"

"No, Senor. He saw none of those who leaped into the sea, only those whose bodies we found."

I said, "But he must have been very worried about Senor Guzman, wasn't he? Senor Guzman was a close friend?"

"No, no! Only a friend of a friend. I never saw either of them until the day before we sailed. He was a tall, handsome man, Senor. Very strong. Muy macho. It frightened him to death even so. From this you conceive how much I feared it."

Rombeau said, "I'm surprised that Don Jose let him and his wife travel on his ship, a penniless couple he hardly knew."

When Novia had translated, Pilar said, "Oh, no, Senor! The Guzmans were not penniless. Far from it! They had very much gold. My husband desired to form a partnership with Senor Guzman in New Spain."

Rombeau's ears pricked up when Novia translated that.

Mine had pricked up already. We wanted to know who had that gold now.

"Senora Guzman, of course, Senors. He is dead, so his gold is hers."

We gave Pilar another glass of wine, chained her hands again, and sent her forward with the two men. After that I plumped myself down in her chair, and Novia, Rombeau, and I looked at each other.

"That liar of a shipowner told us Guzman was ruined," Rombeau said. "He will pay for that!"

I nodded. "He did, and he will. He's got guts, just the same, and you've got to give him credit for them. He wanted his stash and Guzman's, too, and he was willing to fight for them."

"Already he has lost them, Crisoforo." Novia was thinking so hard she sounded as if she were talking to herself instead of me.

"Not the way he sees it. Rombeau's promised they won't be killed. That sounds like we're going to let them go eventually. Put them ashore someplace or send them off in a boat. After that we'd probably sell the Castillo Blanco, or so he thought. He has friends and business connections, and he might be able to find her and buy her before the new owner finds the money."

"Or the woman will save the gold for him, perhaps." Novia went to the rail to look at the white bulk of the Castillo Blanco, a quarter mile away and glowing in the moonlight. "You will not sell her?"

"I don't know. I want to look her over, and I want to find that money." I went to the taffrail, too, and stood there beside Novia with my arm around her waist, a waist no bigger than a child's. Ten dozen things were swirling around in my mind then, and I could not write them all down here if I wanted to.

She leaned against me, just a little. She was wearing one of the calico gowns she and Azuka had made, and there was perfume in her hair. "Do not sell her, Crisoforo." It was a whisper.

"I won't," I promised. "Not if she's half as fast as she looks." I do not believe either of us were thinking of Pilar's ghost, monster, or whatever it was just then.

Fr. Phil and I went for a walk this morning. It was the first time we have ever done that, and was probably the last. At least one priest is supposed to be at the rectory every minute of the day and night in case someone is at the point of death or in urgent need of confession. Fr. Houdek is usually somewhere else, so Fr. Phil and I rarely have a chance to go out together.

Today was different, because Fr. Ed Cole has come to take collections for the missions. He said he planned to spend the rest of the morning reading, so off we went, a couple of young priests on a sunny Monday-morning stroll.

While we walked, we talked about a good many things. Fr. Phil is eager to get a parish of his own, but thinks it will be years. I know I may get one in the next few weeks, and am not at all eager-which is not what I said to Fr. Phil.

One of the things we talked about (maybe the only important thing we talked about) was what it means to be a priest. He is focused on the priest as leader of a little community of believers. That is what he wants from his priesthood, though he did not put it like that. I am more focused on the sacred nature of the calling. "After all," I said, "a priest living alone on a desert island far away remains a priest. Does God think less of him because he has forsaken the world of men for God?"

"You ought to say, the world of people," Fr. Phil told me.

I have used the word importance, but none of this was important at all. The subject is certainly important, but we had nothing of importance to say about it. And we were both right, and both quite willing to concede that both of us were right. If Fr. Houdek had been with us, he would have focused on something else, I am sure, though I am not sure what it would be. Raising money for a new school, or administering the sacraments, or any of a dozen other things.

One thing I am sure of, now that I have had a chance to think our conversation over, it is that the thing we should focus on depends on where we are. My priest on a desert island is not in a parish. Fr. Phil's priest in a parish is not alone on an island. Fr. Luis was in a third place, and so on.

I started writing about this because of what happened at the end. Fr. Phil said something I ought to have said, and felt something I ought to have felt. We were out of character (as an actor would say), both of us. But life is not a TV series, and this was a salutary reminder of it.

We were returning to the rectory when Fr. Phil stopped and pointed to the spire of the church, raising its shining gilt cross to the clear blue sky. "Look at that, Chris! Isn't it inspiring? Every time I see it, I want to cheer."

I did not feel that way. I knew I should have, but I did not. Still, there was a little tickle of memory there for me, and I knew there had been a time when I had felt like that about something. It took me hours to recall what it was. Eventually I realized that it had hit me so hard because I am at that point in this private and probably worthless chronicle-in this, the true story about me that I tell myself each evening at the hour when all or most of the kids have gone home from the Youth Center and we are about to close. It meant a great deal to me then, as it still does. It did not speak in words, however, and I know that no words of mine can make anybody-no, not even this man in black who writes it-feel what I felt then.

When Novia and I went aboard the Castillo Blanco, we did not set out to look for the hidden woman or the hidden gold straight off. My first concern had to be for the ship itself-how well Bouton had been handling her, and how well she handled.

He was full of praise for her, though he had less for the crew Rombeau had given him.

"You don't have a pistol," I said.

"Mine are in my cabin, Captain. I did not feel one was necessary."

"You're right. You need two. Two at least. Go to your cabin and get them. Three would be better."

When he had gone Novia said, "I have mine, Crisoforo," and I told her I hoped she would not have to use them.

"First we'll explain things to them," I told Bouton when he came back with his pistols. "If we do it right, we won't have to worry about their ganging up on us. If you see anybody goofing off, smack his ass with the flat of your cutlass. If anybody hits you or pulls a knife-or if anybody even tries it-kill him. I'll be with you, and I expect you to be with me. We kill him quick, throw him over the side, and get them back to it. Capeesh? We don't give them time to talk it over."