The Spaniard

The waters were calm this day, and the winds fortuitous. The sea stretched before his eyes and over the horizon, a roiling mass of deep blue. It was difficult to believe England lay just across, awaiting their successes. A ship sat idly just across the jagged rocks, its sails yet to be unfurled. The first of the tobacco had been loaded onto it, and the men were rowing back for the second. If there were one qualm to be had, it was that perhaps the sun was too high in the sky.

"Mr. Reverend Taylor." A young man with a weatherworn face stepped wearily through the sand of the beach. Each stride left a deep mark in the dirt as if the earth itself were sucking at his feet, unwilling to release him. His doublet was damp with sweat, his breeches soiled likewise. A breeze rippled through the air, offering those toiling on the beach some respite.

"Thomas," the reverend said pleasantly. "Have you broken your fast?"

The brown-haired youth nodded solemnly. "Goodwife Davies prepared us adequately for our labors. And you, Mr. Reverend?"

"I as well. They turkey and eggs were salted particularly well this morn." He frowned. "How may I be of service? Surely Captain Adams can do without a pair of old hands such as mine?"

"Yes, reverend. The work is progressing quickly." Thomas shuffled his feet, his brow furrowed with worry. "Rather, it was Commander Johnson who was in need of your services."

"Oh?" The reverend's curiosity was piqued. "And what would the town militia need of me on a day such as this?"

"The patrols stumbled upon an interesting find, Mr. Reverend. A man, starved and nearly dead washed upon the beaches."

The reverend felt a stab of irritation. "That is hardly interesting, Thomas. Lost men are not a novel thing in these lands." He rubbed at his spectacles with his handkerchief. "And undoubtedly not something requiring a reverend's attention. Perhaps more fitting for the doctor."

Thomas nodded. "The man is a Spaniard, judging by the tongue he speaks. The commander requests your assistance, Mr. Reverend."

Suddenly the older man understood. And this certainly was interesting. "It does indeed sound like a matter which would require my aid. Lead on, Thomas, I shall follow." He slapped the young man's back. "You must forgive my earlier indecency. It would appear the sun is wringing us all by the necks."

"Of course, Mr. Reverend." The somber boy turned and walked, as quiet as ever. The reverend could not help but feel some sympathy. Several hard years in this hospitable land had turned boys into men and men into dust, dampening many a bright spirit.

The reverend attempted to fill the silence. "You know, Thomas, I am familiar with the Spanish tongue by courtesy of my mother. She is French by blood, and we would make voyages to that land on occasion. Her brother--my uncle--is a Jesuit priest. He was often accompanied by his friends from that order when we would meet with him, and many were Spaniards. I became enamored in the language and took it upon myself to study it to some degree." He let out a bellow of laughter. "A Protestant minister and a Catholic priest from the same household is quite the juxtaposition, don't you think?"

"Indeed, Mr. Reverend," Thomas said. The remark was followed by a forced chuckle. The reverend sighed.

The path to the walled town was not arduous, but the reverend's age and occupation had added several more pounds to his gut than he would have liked. His gait was ungainly when compared to the youth's lithe movements as they worked their way up the sandy hills, past the tall blades of beige and green grass.

The reverend tipped his hat and nodded to any who acknowledged him as they walked through the roads to the barracks. The town was bustling with life, and word was abuzz in anticipation of the goods from London the ship would bring back with it in six months' time.

Thomas held the door to the wooden barracks open for the reverend. Taking off his hat, the reverend dabbed at his forehead with his handkerchief. He pulled at the ruff around his neck, which suddenly seemed too tight and hot for the weather.

A middle-aged man who looked closer to the reverend's age than his own came out to meet them. "Mr. Reverend."

The reverend smiled. "Commander Johnson. I am told you are in need of my talents in language?"

Commander Johnson chuckled. "We are. The man sits in a cell--we had no other rooms for him, you see--eating our potatoes and corn bread. Surely we could spare no meat for a Spaniard. He seems to have recovered from his previous state." The commander's face took on a grim look. "We must know his purpose for being so far up north. Should there be a Spanish incursion, we may have need of all hands able to hold a musket."

The reverend grimaced. "Dear God, I should hope not! I will do what I can so that the Spaniard is more forthcoming. I should hope no other methods shall be necessary." The reverend eyed the jailkeep, who held a pair of pincers in his hand.

"Rest assured," Commander Johnson said briskly, "we have much trust in your wisdom and powers of persuasion." He stared with displeasure at the jailkeep, who had without a doubt entered the room in an untimely fashion.

The Spaniard was a small man, his body lean and shoddy, his bones a frame and his skin as leather. His beard was long, brushing against his bare, pitted chest with each movement of his head. The reverend held his handkerchief to his nostrils at the onslaught of an unbearable stench permeating the room. The Spaniard sat upon his bed at the corner of the cell, huddled against the wall in the same manner as his rags clung to his person.

The reverend lowered himself carefully onto a nearby stool. "Hola."

The man's eyes widened. "Eres español?"

The reverend shook his head. "I am not. I am the reverend of this colony of the crown of Great Britain. For what purpose are you, a Spaniard, doing here so far north?"

The Spaniard relaxed noticeably. "I am a Jesuit priest. My ship, meant for Spain, was shipwrecked in a storm. I would like to thank you and your companions for saving my life."

The reverend cocked his head, suddenly feeling an affinity for the man. "A Jesuit priest, you say? And your companions? Were they soldiers?"

The Spaniard shook his head sadly. "My captors."

Raising his eyebrows in momentary shock, the reverend gathered himself before he turned to those behind him. Commander Johnson was wearing an especially expectant expression. "Good masters, I have no reason to believe this man was a part of anything military in nature. Our colony is safe." The reverend cleared his throat. "Though I should like to continue speaking to the man."

Commander Johnson released a deep sigh. "Then I shall inform the governor. I thank you for your help, reverend."

When the others had left, he turned back to the Spaniard. "My good priest, what business does a Jesuit have being held prisoner by his own countrymen?"

"You know of Jesuits?"

"My uncle, who I am fond of, is of your order."

"Then you would be wise to warn him, should you ever see him again." The Spaniard broke a piece of cornbread and chewed on it slowly. "The Spanish crown has declared my order outlaws, Señor. We are to be removed from the New World."

The reverend was taken aback. "For what reason? Your order does holy work in these lands!"

The Spaniard smiled sadly. "Long have those in my order worked to better the lives of the natives in the Spanish colonies, when the conquistadors of Spain did naught but destroy and conquer."

The reverend nodded. "I have heard of your so-called Jesuit 'reductions.' Safe havens for the natives who wish to flee the rule of the crown."

The Spaniard's eyes grew wan as the rest of his frail body. Only then did the reverend realize that the eyes, unlike the body, had been alight with life. "Within the hell brought by the Spanish and Portuguese conquerors, my brethren and I attempted to maintain the havens created by those who came before us so that the natives might live safe and free from the yoke of slavery forced upon them by their conquerors. Alas, the power of greed was too great, and the armies of the crown were sent against us, and we were defeated and subjugated, the people enslaved..." The Spaniard held the reverend with his eyes. "You said you are a reverend, yes?"

The reverend nodded. "I am the reverend of this colony of the British crown, yes." Suddenly the Spaniard dropped his bread and grasped the reverend's hands, much to the latter's surprise.

"Señor," the Spaniard began, "you must return to your island of Britain, and you must prevent the coming of your countrymen to these lands."

The reverend stared at the Spaniard incredulously. "And why should I do such a thing as that?"

The Spaniard's face distorted into a look of desperate pleading. "They are all one and the same, the British, the Spanish, the Portuguese, it matters not. This thing they do, sending people to these lands. It brings with it naught but destruction and death borne from the hubris of empire."

The reverend pulled his hands from the Spaniard's grip. "Pardon me, sir, but my fellows and I are here to escape from the persecutions we ourselves faced! Many are here to live better lives, to take what the land would offer us!"

The Spaniard shook his head. "Do you not see? You cannot live in peace with those who already dwell here. For your freedom ends where theirs begins, and can you guarantee that your friends will not one day decide that their freedom is worth more than the natives' own?"

The reverend brushed his doublet and hands indignantly. "My countrymen are good men! They should do no such thing."

"And so did mine claim to be," the Spaniard said, slumping. "But coming to these lands, already the home of another people...Would you British give up your lands so easily if unknown invaders landed on your shores? This thing the kings of our nations seek to do, it can never be peaceful. For to establish, we must first supplant; to flourish, we must first destroy; to rise, we must suppress. Everything we gain, comes at the cost of those who this land already belongs to."

The reverend brushed his breeches as he stood. The ravings of a half-starved madman was not how he had planned to start his voyage. "Good day, good priest. I have business to attend to. I will speak with the commander, and he shall see to it that all your needs are attended to."

The Spaniard watched him with sorrowful eyes as the reverend turned to leave. He felt the burden of the gaze up until the very moment he stood upon the decks of the ship. Staring into the distance, the reverend shook his head. They were merely doing what others before them had already done. And now the Spaniard would judge them! Besides, what could one person do against the movements of an empire?

Across the horizon, a dark ship loomed against the clear sky, heading towards them. The reverend heard the clack of boots against wood as the captain joined him at the railing.

"A slaver ship," Captain Adams said as if reading the reverend's thoughts. "Our crop was successful, and we required more working hands. You'll see, Mr. Reverend Taylor. Our people shall prevail, and the world shall quake at our power."

The reverend said nothing. For a brief moment, he thought of the Spaniard, before returning to his cabin.