Pirate Freedom (36 page)

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?"

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.