They weren’t ready.
“Gevalt!” Yankeleh exclaims. “It only took Adonai himself seven days to make the world. You’ve had seven years!”
“What’s to say, now that the world is done?” the tailor replies. “So, nu, your pants are a tragedy … but at least we can talk about them.”
What could I say about Africa, of my pinfeather days and family? This ship and its crew, now baptized buccaneer, were my shtetl, my neighbours, a kind of family. These outsiders to outsiders here in the New World.
But Aaron, I said to myself. Don’t be a putz.
You’re a bird.
I was an outsider to all but Moishe.
And even then.
The captured Captain Rodriguez was tasked with guiding us toward a Spanish convoy of ships. He told us it would be unprotected, for what seaborne bandits roamed this distant side of the Ocean Sea?
Rodriguez would guide us to a line of ships: a wind-driven pantry, a floating larder sailing from Spain.
And what would be aboard? Clothes and food, horses and cows.
Slaves, settlers, Indians, women, guns and priests.
Accountants. It was wished that the countless desires of the Spanish should be counted. All exported loot would be recorded and taxed.
And what if the Indians returned to this new world like burning coals to Newcastle?
“They bring them back because they kill them here,” Moishe said. And indeed, Indians were quickly disappearing from their own lands.
Disease. Overwork. Abuse. Starvation. The Four Grim Nag-riders of Empire.
Some Indians had been shipped across the Ocean Sea to Spain for curiosity and slavery. Many who survived were returned. Ferdinand and Isabella had changed their crowned minds: It was official, Indians were now subjects of Spain and had souls. They could not be captured or enslaved. Unless in war or by virtue of their interest in fressing upon the flesh of other subjects.
As Moishe put it, “Subject suppers are not allowed.”
“Exactly,” I said. “No soul food.”
Indians must now be subjugated like any peasant. Africans, on the other hand, still had no soul, were strong and well adapted to working and were already used to slavery, having a rich résumé of capture by other Africans and by Arabs and Europeans. It would take thirty years for Africans to have souls. Or, takeh, souls that could be saved by the church.
It might be that Jesus saves. But Moses shops.
As we would soon shop aboard the Spanish fleet for food and clothes, animals and comforts. We would free the slaves and likely fillet the wispy souls from the mortal flesh of the priests.
“By the time this day sinks below the horizon, we will be in sight of the convoy,” Rodriguez told Moishe.
“Good,” Moishe said. “We’ll be able to see their sails by the faint light of the stars but our ship will be invisible. I’ve just asked the crew to paint our own sails black.”
And so we steered a shadow, the only sounds the hidden windharp of sheets and sails, the whistling nostrils and wheezing lungs of Jacome, and the heavy breathing and intermittent pickle-grepsing of the rest of the crew anticipating battle.
Between each ship of the convoy and the next, there would be space as between teeth in an alter kaker’s maw. We would sail close to a single caravel, board it, bully it of plunder, and be gone before the other ships knew what hadn’t yet hit them. Then we would sail into the dawn, our hold bulging, ready to plotz with spoil.
Night came fast. A sea empty of all but dark and distance.
Moishe summoned Rodriguez.
“Nu?”
“Patience, Captain.”
“If there is no ship, Rodriguez, Death will need rummage through your wounds to find you.”
“The ships will soon be before us,” Rodriguez said steadily, though his face was pale.
Two bells. Middle watch. I flew into the dark sky. Ahead of us, a sheyneh beautiful sight.
I made a slip knot of the air and landed on Moishe’s shoulder.
“Off the starboard bow.”
The undulating sails of a Spanish ship, luminous in the dim light.
“Oy!” Moishe shouted to the sleeping crew. “You mangy yam gazlonim. You farkakteh Yiddishe pirates, time for a bisl Jewish flamenco.”
We went to work immediately, mustering all the canvas we were able. We rigged out oars for extra yards. And, for still more speed, we wet down the sails by buckets of water whipped up to the masthead. We would run quickly toward our prey.
Surprise is best attained by those who outrun expectation.
Moishe peered into the night. We had no telescope. For such a glass we would need to squint a hundred years into the future.
Moishe could make out only that there was a ship.
At three bells, I flew again above the mainmast to observe our prey.