Gene Wolfe - Pirate Freedom

I had only started up the column when one of Capt. Burt's men came. He said I had to come, and I told him I was coming already.

The thing was that this was a Moskito Native American and the Moskitos did not speak the same language as the Kunas. So he was trying to make himself understood to the chief 's son, and the chief 's son to Capt. Cox, who told Capt. Burt. But he had picked up quite a bit of Spanish while he had been a slave, so Capt. Burt wanted me.

This Moskito was a tough-looking man without an ounce of fat on him. Capt. Burt had what they called a barber-surgeon with his gang, and this doctor was putting soldier salve on the Moskito's ankle, which looked just awful.

The first thing he asked me was whether I was Spanish. I said no, English, but I had lived in Cuba awhile. It was the sort of lie that is not a sin, because I was not trying to deceive him, just trying to make it clear where we stood.

He told me there were many soldiers in Portobello. They stayed mostly at the fort, but now they would send some out to look for him because he had run. I said how many, and he held up five fingers. Capt. Burt and the other captains all agreed that did not sound too bad.

After that, I asked him about the other soldiers who were not at the fort. Where were they? There was a "wall of logs," he said, to watch the road. They were in there. Many soldiers. He opened and closed his hands to show how many, and if he was right about that it was about fifty. He had gone around this stockade through the jungle. He would show us the way.

Of course I asked about other defenses, and he said there were not any. The big questions, naturally, were whether the townspeople would fight? And how hard? There were going to be more of them than us, and if they had guns and were willing to use them, we would have a tough time of it. We were counting on their running when we beat the soldiers.

I talked to Capt. Burt then, mentioning that we could go around the stockade. He said we would have to take it. If we did not, they could hit us from in back when we were looting the town. I said, "Let's leave a couple of dozen men to watch it and shoot at anybody who opens the gate. They won't know how many there are, and I'll bet doubloons to shillings they'll stay in there."

He shook his head. "We can't risk it. They might fight their way out, or our men might run off to get in on the looting." Which I suppose was right.

After that I asked the Moskito how he had escaped. He showed me his ankle, which I had seen already. To keep him from running, his owner had kept him chained to a log he had to drag around. After years of that, his ankle had gotten so bad his owner had taken the chain off to put medicine on it. When he did, the Moskito had knocked him down and run, bad ankle and all. If I could write down how bad I felt about Novia when I saw his ankle, I would. I felt like I was the lowest thing on earth, even though I chained her up because I did not want her to get killed.

To get back to the Moskito, he had seen that some of our men had axes, and he said that if we would lend him an ax he would cut a club and help us kill the Spanish. I told him to come with me and I would give him something a lot better than a club.

There was a lot more talking before we got moving again, but I will not try to give it all. The important thing was that nobody was sure how far we were from the stockade. It was less than a day's march, but still a pretty good way. We talked about it a lot, and asked questions of the Native Americans, but in the end that was all we really knew. We probably would not get there today, but we might. If we did not get there, we might be pretty close by the time we camped. It bothered me.

Before I say more about that-I took the Moskito back with me and gave him Paddy's cutlass. He was crazy about it, and we parted about as friendly as a white and a Native American can ever get.

We camped and ate a little, and lay down hoping the bugs would bother somebody else. I was swatting some and swearing under my breath when it hit me that I was not going to get much sleep anyhow, and it might be better to have a look and see where the stockade was.

I got up as quietly as I could, told Boucher that Rombeau was in charge while I was gone, and off I went. The Kuna stopped me like I knew they would. When I told them what I was doing, the chief 's son said he would send a man with me. I said no, let them get some sleep. I would not go far, and I would be right back.

After that I was alone. There were certain animals that were dangerous, and you could always step on a snake that had fallen asleep, but the worst danger was getting lost, and I knew it. I went slowly and carefully, trying to notice bends in the path and trees that might help me on the way back. I kept hoping for a clearing that would let me look up and take my direction from the North Star, but no luck with that.

When I felt a hand on my shoulder, I about jumped out of my clothes and spun around ready to kill somebody. It was the white Kuna girl I had given Paddy's cross. She sort of flattened herself against me the way girls will sometimes. "Happy see me?"

I should have said it was too dark to see anything, but I said yes instead.

"Me show. Keep safe. Come me."

I swear we crossed the same little creek three times before we got to the Spanish road. After that, we did not have to worry about losing our way anymore because it was too plain for that. The worry was that they would see us before we saw them.

That did not happen either. We got to the stockade and crept all the way around it. Twice I saw sentries behind the pointed logs. I could have shot one pretty easily, too, and I was tempted to. But it would have been the worst thing I could do. We did not want them to know we were anywhere in their neighborhood until we rushed them.

I counted my steps when we went back. It was seven thousand two hundred and something. The blond Kuna girl and I kissed twice because she wanted it. She would not tell me her name, saying I had to give her an English name. I said all right, your name is Pinkie.

I swear, that was all we did.

One of my jobs here is to teach religion in the school-I have been doing it to the best of my ability. Perhaps I have mentioned those classes before, but I may not have: the basis of Christian faith is well known, and all the concepts I have taught our children are quite elementary. Their many questions are usually easy and predictable.

Today we discussed the nature of saints. I emphasized that while all those the Church names as saints are indeed saints, there are many, many others who are saints, too.

"Saints," I said, "are the friends of God. Everyone who gets to Heaven is a saint. Whose grandparents are dead? Anybody?"

Several hands went up.

"If your grandparents are in Heaven-it's quite possible they are-they are saints."

Tim waved his book. "I don't understand, Father. It talks about Saint John here and what he did. He wasn't in Heaven when he did those things."

Peggy said, "He was a saint afterward, so they call him that."

I held up my hand. "What did I say a saint was?"

Several voices: "God's friend."

"Exactly. I did not say a friend in Heaven. Anyone who is truly God's friend is a saint. He may not know it-that doesn't matter. If he or she is God's friend, that's all it takes." After that I talked about some saints, the Saint John who baptized Jesus, Saint Lucy, Saint Ignatius Loyola (always a favorite of mine), and Saint Catharine of Alexandria.

Donald wanted to argue. "If I was to be a saint, Father Chris, would God do stuff for me? Miracles?"

"He might, but He probably wouldn't."

"I'd be doing stuff for Him, so why wouldn't He do stuff for me?"