Gene Wolfe - Pirate Freedom

I said, "He's already brought you into being, Donald. He maintains you in being, and has given you free will. That means He made you free in a profound way that this desk of mine is not, and in a way that no animal can be. He died for you."

I paused. "Perhaps He might consider that He has already done enough."

Of course I was asked then whether I was God's friend. I explained that I try to be-and often fail. When I go back to Cuba, will they think that I was not God's friend after all? That is what Bishop Scully will think, I know. Let it not be what I think.

Yet none of those things are important. What matters is what He thinks. What He thinks is so. IN THE MORNING I told Capt. Burt-how many steps along the trail, and how many along the Spanish road.

We had only just gotten on the Spanish road when we heard the drums. They were not Native American drums, but snare drums, beaten to keep soldiers walking in step. We hid in the jungle, whispering that nobody should shoot until they were all in front of us.

It would have been a good idea, but somebody saw a chance to kill the officer and took it. He shot, the officer was bowled over like a rabbit, and the fat was in the fire. After that it was just a wild fight.

We won, I would have to say, mostly because we had more men. There were probably about a hundred fifty Spanish. Maybe two hundred, but it could not have been more than that. We had about six hundred, counting the Kuna. The Spanish bugged out before long, the men who had been at the back of their column forming up, firing a volley, and retreating for all they were worth. The Kuna were after them like hounds, but we held up and tried to get our men back together. It would have been fun to chase those Spanish soldiers, sure, and we would have gotten quite a few. The thing was that if we had we might have run into more, which would have been bad.

Some of our guys did chase them, actually. For an hour or so, as we got organized again and tramped on down the road toward the stockade, we could hear shots in the distance. Some of that was the Spanish shooting at our Kuna, but not all of it was. Our buccaneers were dead shots with a musket or a pistol.

Naturally the Spanish in the stockade knew we were coming after that. They had a couple four-pounders and three or four swivel guns, and everything loaded and ready. There were various things we could have done if there had been time, but there was not. The town would hear the shooting-had probably heard it already-and tell the fort, and the fort might send more soldiers.

Capt. Burt and I went out, with me carrying a flag of truce, and I called on the officer in charge to surrender. If they did, I said, everyone would be spared. But if they did not, we were going to massacre every man. The officer showed himself above the pointed logs and said no way, which was what we had expected. I dropped the flag, three dead shots we had told off to do it killed him the moment my flag hit the ground, and we charged.

Eight of the strongest men I had tried to smash the gate with a log. That gate held, but our guys were jumping up, grabbing the points of the stockade, and pulling themselves over. By the time the log had hit the gate twice, we must have had a hundred men inside the stockade, including me. Each of the four-pounders got off one shot. I do not think all the swivel guns fired, and I know most of the soldiers who tried to shoot between the points died before they could pull the trigger.

Here I ought to say how brave I was, killing Spaniards left and right and fighting it out cutlass-to-sword with a Spanish officer.

Only none of it happened. I am a whole lot prouder of what I really did, which was save the lives of the slaves. Those Spaniards had eight slaves in there to do the work, five Native Americans and three blacks. Our guys were killing everybody, and they would have killed them if I had not stopped it. The Native Americans were Kuna and Moskitos. I freed them straight off, and they grabbed muskets and bullet boxes right away-there were plenty of those lying around by then.

I found Big Ned and showed him to the black slaves. It turned out that they spoke the same language, all four of them having come from the same part of Africa. We told them they could join us and be pirates like Ned, or they could go with our Kunas, if the Kunas would have them. Or if they did not like either of those, we would take them as slaves. They would have to work then, but they would not have to fight. All three decided to join us.

There are a lot of bad memories when I look back on my pirate days. I have already written about some of them, and there are more coming. Just the same, there are good memories, too. Sailing the Windward, and a lot of times with Novia when I knew I loved her and she loved me. Marriage is a good thing. I will never say it is not. But it is God who makes you one flesh, not marriage.

So this is one of the best memories, saving the slaves in the Spanish stockade. There were a lot more slaves in Portobello. I am sure some of them were killed, and we made some of the others be slaves for us. I could not stop the killing or talk Capt. Burt into freeing the black ones. (Most of them were Native Americans, and some were white.) So the stockade was the exception.

That just makes it sweeter. Someday I am bound to figure out why I am always getting into trouble. When I try to be bad, I get into trouble. When I try to be good, it is the same thing. We had a parish meeting this evening. This was because of a letter Bishop Scully sent to all the parishes advising us to get together with any parishioners who might have gripes or suggestions. Fr. Wahl and I talked it over and put an announcement in the bulletin. Tonight was the night, and the first part was pretty dull. People told me they liked my sermons (they are short), and some others said how much they appreciated having regular confession on Saturdays.

When nobody else seemed to have anything to say, I told them I had been thinking about starting Adoration of the Blessed Sacrament. Nobody would have to come, there would be a short prayer service-under half an hour, I said-and after that I would stay there as long as anyone wanted to stay and pray. I warned them that I would not necessarily be praying. I might read or write instead. But I would be there for as long as anyone wanted to stay.

Nobody could believe it. They looked the way those slaves looked when I got Big Ned to come over and they saw him with his cutlass, and pistols in his belt, and the rag around his head where he had gotten hit with something. He talked to them a little in the African language, got out the leather bag where he kept his money, and showed them pieces of eight and some gold doubloons.

Through it all their eyes got bigger and bigger, and they started smiling.

That was how it was when we talked about Adoration and decided Tuesday nights at eight. But when the meeting was over and we were back in the rectory, Fr. Wahl told me I was going to get into trouble with Bishop Scully. He did not like Adoration, Fr. Wahl said.

I said okay, Bishop Scully has a right to his opinion and I have a right to mine. He will not be in trouble with me.

Here is where I did something mean, and I am sorry for it. I whistled as I went upstairs. I knew how Fr. Wahl would take it, but I did it just the same. I will ask him to forgive me for it, and I am sure he will.

The thing was, I knew that Bishop Scully was going to have a lot more reason to be angry with me. I am going to dress like a layman and drive over to the airport one day soon, and he will never see me again. I know he will not like that, and I do not blame him for it. But he will not be quite so angry when he remembers I was the troublemaker who reinstituted Adoration of the Blessed Sacrament and thought boys should stand up for themselves and what is right. I have just read over what I wrote about the stockade, and I do not think there is any reason to write more about that here. We formed up again and marched on the town, with the Kuna running ahead to look for ambushes.