Chapter 4
Tayabas, Luzon, Philippines
Father Blanco lifted the coconut to his lips. His guide had just plucked it from a tree and punched a drinking hole in it for Father Blanco’s benefit. The coconut water was a welcome relief.
Once Father Blanco tossed the husk aside, the guide motioned Father Blanco onward. They were on a meandering forest trail, and occasionally the guide had to draw his bolo and cut away intruding brush. The trunks of the trees were mossy, and their canopies were linked by vines. Once, a fern rustled, and the guide grabbed Father Blanco sharply by the shoulder, holding him in place. A moment later, a dark brown ulupong, a kind of cobra, slithered across their path.
Perhaps an hour later, they were in Tayabas, founded by Franciscan missionaries in 1578.
Tayabas was surrounded by thickets of bayabas, guava bushes, and its name was a contraction of the Tagalog phrase “among the bayabas.” It had, as Father Blanco expected, a church, a town plaza, and a tribunal, the government administrative center. There was no fort. This town center was surrounded by a haphazard cluster of native dwellings.
Father Blanco was taken to the church, where he was welcomed by the priest, a mestizo.
“How do I get safely to Cebu?”
The parish priest shook his head sorrowfully. “Now? It is impossible. There are Moro raids on the Tayabas Bay coast every week. Even if you could find a ship willing to make the attempt, it would take a miracle to reach Cebu without being spotted and overtaken. If you are lucky, you would just be held for ransom. More likely, you would be enslaved, or killed outright. Some of the Moros think that they earn their place in heaven by killing infidels.”
“So, what do you suggest I do?”
“Wait. The Moros come up to the Visayas with the southwest monsoon. Each pirate squadron establishes a secret base near some Christian towns. Their little outrigger canoes fan out from there to capture hapless fishermen or raid small villages. Or the whole squadron, big ships and small, sallies against a town. The entire population is killed or enslaved, and the town burnt down.”
“Isn’t the southwest monsoon season over?”
“Yes, but they will wait until November, for the arrival of the northeast monsoon, to return home with their spoils. The wind is more favorable, and there is less chance of encountering a typhoon.”
The northeast monsoon wind would also make it easier to sail to Cebu, Father Blanco realized. And he knew that the Moros were not to be trifled with. Why, the last archbishop of Manila, Hernando Guerrero, had been attacked at sea by six Moro galliots while attempting a pastoral visit to Mindoro. His ship made it to shore, but the pirates followed them in, and most of his party were murdered or captured for ransom.
“I will wait until November to attempt a passage. But considering the distance, it probably won’t be easy to find a boat captain willing to take me to Cebu.”
“That is true,” the parish priest admitted. “There is no regular trade between us and Cebu. In times past, you would take a ship to Manila, and then from Manila to Cebu, but that trade has dried up. Perhaps, if you are lucky, a Chinese trader will come by to buy lambanog.” That was a distilled coconut palm liquor, the local equivalent of sake or schnapps.
“Well, I should talk to the local boat captains in the meantime, try to line up a ride for November. Maybe someone who wants to sell lambanog in Cebu.”
The parish priest frowned. “As you have no doubt noticed, Tayabas itself is some miles inland. There’s a gravel road leading down to its port, Pagbilao. You can go down there and make inquiries, but be alert! It has the advantage of being set back, on Pagbilao Bay, and there’s a wooden watchtower on one of the headlands, but the Moros’ proas can escape notice at night, or the watchman may be distracted, asleep or absent altogether.”
The Tayabas priest gave Father Blanco a new guide, and so Blanco said goodbye to the one from Bay. The new guide, a boy, looked suspiciously like the Tayabas priest, but Father Blanco kept his suspicions to himself. The boy spoke both Spanish and Tagalog, and he would be Father Blanco’s interpreter, too.
They walked down to Pagbilao, and the boy asked Father Blanco many questions about Manila and Japan. The boy had never been to Manila, and he had never met anyone who had lived in Japan.
In Pagbilao, Father Blanco was an immediate sensation, and his companion basked in Blanco’s aura of celebrity. Unfortunately for Father Blanco, that celebrity did not help him find transport. He did, however, hear many tales about Moro raids.
One fisherman told about how he and his fellows used to fish at night, by torchlight, when the Moros came among them in dugout canoes and captured them one by one. Fortunately, a cry for help had alerted him, and he was able to escape.
Another said in the early dawn, the Moros might have one or two of their number dressed like Christians, with the others lying flat in the hull, and come close, surprising fishermen at their fish corrals, or individuals on shore casting nets or gathering seaweeds, shellfish, salt or mangrove cuttings.
Even worse were the occasions when thousands of Moros landed on the beach and attacked a town. If the townspeople were very lucky, someone spotted them and rang the church bell. But unless the church had stout stone walls, their best course of action was to flee into the neighboring thickets. Under Spanish law, the Tagalogs could not bear arms, unless they were part of a militia company like the one in Manila.
If they didn’t want to give up fishing and live inland, the best they could do was pray: “From the Moro fury, deliver us, Lord.”
One of the fishermen invited Father Blanco to a fiesta in Sariaya, about sixteen miles west of Pagbilao. Father Blanco was anxious to ingratiate himself with the fishermen and accepted. It was almost the last thing he did in this life.
The day started off well enough, as he and his young guide were taken in a bangka, a double outrigger dugout canoe, to Sariaya.
The village plaza was thronged with people, not just the residents of Sariaya, but also partygoers from many nearby barangays. There was music, there was dancing, and of course there was lambanog.
Unfortunately, the local Tagalog and Father Blanco were not the only people attracted by the fiesta. That night, the Moro pirates beached their flotilla of bangka on the nearby coast, and worked their way slowly inland. It was their opportunity for a final coup before returning to their homelands in the south.
They moved silently from hut to hut on the outskirts of the village, surrounding it and then surprising the occupants, killing or trussing them up, and gathering up valuables.
Fortunately for Father Blanco and some of the other inhabitants, one of the Moros couldn’t resist the temptation to set afire one of those huts.
As the fiesta became wilder and wilder, Father Blanco had moved to the sidelines, patiently waiting for his hosts to tire and offer him a ride back to Pagbilao. He prayed that they would not be so drunk that he would need to spend the night in Sariaya.
He had turned his back on the festivities—if these people must sin, best that he didn’t witness it, he reasoned—and that’s when he saw the fire. “What do you suppose that signifies?” he asked someone nearby.
“Moros!” the man screamed.
There was pandemonium. Father Blanco knew that he should run, but in what direction? He knew that if the pirates found him, he risked not only enslavement or death like the ordinary villagers, but death by torture. Their animosity for priests was considerable.
His guide tugged on his black cassock, a gift from the priest in Bay. “This way!” He was taken onto a trail leading into Sariaya’s own bayabas thickets.
In their haste, their clothes were torn and their skin scratched by the thorns, but they were too keyed up to notice this until they stopped running and hid under the arching branches. And there they remained for a long, fretful night.
Father Blanco resolved to return to the relative safety of Tayabas until November. As Father Blanco and his guide trudged back to Tayabas the following morning, he reflected on the tragic irony of a Moro attack on a fiesta honoring the Virgin Mary, and more specifically, honoring her response to Pope Pius’ prayer to her for victory over the Turks at Lepanto. The anniversary of that victory had been earlier that month.
Texada Island
West of Iron Landing, there was a small bay with a stream running into it. Beginning in October, the chum salmon had come there to spawn, and sailors of the exploration party had come there to catch them. Despite Fast-Drummer’s warnings, they had not encountered any Indians here.
While the fish could be speared with the yari, it was more efficient to use a gaff hook, as salmon could work their way off a straight spearpoint.
The sailors stood on rocks, holding yari or gaff hooks in a ready position. While they studied the water, eagles swooped down out of the sky and grabbed salmon with their talons. Once a river otter made a dash from the brush along the stream and took a prize of its own.
Despite the competition, the Japanese collected a large number of fish. They brought them back in red cedar withe baskets made by Yells-at-Bears, and barbecued their lunch over an open fire.
There was a surplus of fish, and these were fileted and hung to smoke dry. Camp Double Six now had a separate smoke house.
The fishermen went into the main building and started gambling in the dining hall. Yells-at-Bears started to follow them but Isamu stopped her. “It is time you learned how to wield the naginata.”
They went into his office, where the naginata was held in a stand.
“First, you should know how it is put together.” Isamu removed a peg from near the top of the six foot long staff of the naginata, and that allowed him to pull the long tang of the blade out of the staff. He carefully unsheathed the eighteen inch blade so Yells-at-Bear could inspect it. The blade had a straight base and a curved tip.
“The edge is very sharp,” Isamu warned her, “like that of my katana. You can feel it safely with a finger if you tap it gently, but if you run a finger along it, it will slice you open. Because that’s what it’s designed to do.”
“Understood.”
“It’s actually better not to touch it at all, but if you do, you need to oil the blade so it doesn’t rust.” He carefully put the cover back on.
“The naginata gives you a great reach,” he declared. “All samurai women are expected to be proficient in its use by the time they are eighteen years old, but many men favor it, too. It is my favorite weapon, actually, as the bow is Masaru’s.”
“It is fortunate that you had an extra naginata for me,” Yells-at-Bears said.
“Actually, I don’t. But if you practice hard, and show me that you are worthy of it, I will give it to you. I can fight with my katana, of course, so I am not defenseless.”
“But don’t you want to have a naginata still?”
“Oh, I do. But before I left the Ieyasu Maru, I told Yoritaki that I was thinking of giving you my naginata, and that he should make sure that a new one is sent to me with the colony ship.”
She smiled. “So you were thinking of me even then. . . .”
“Um, yes.” He coughed. “Enough talk! You have much to learn!” He put the sheath back on the blade. “Lift it, feel the weight.” After she did so, he told her to put it back in the stand and take the wooden staff that was leaning against the wall.
“This staff is the same length as the naginata, but lighter. Take it, and follow me.”
Isamu and Yells-at-Bears went out into the assembly yard.
“Take a two hand grip near one end, palms facing opposite directions. Yes, that’s right. Lift it above your head, bring it down to horizontal. Do this three times ten. Then up and to the right and down, three times ten. Up and to the left and down, three times ten. To the right and sweep forward, three times ten. To the left and sweep forward, three times ten.
“I must go now and check on the miners,” said Isamu. “But do those exercises each day. When you are ready, I will give you the next lesson.”
Yells-at-Bears saluted him with her practice staff, and began her exercises.
A week later, Yells-at-Bears beckoned to Isamu. “Look,” she said, pointing westward and skyward. The sun had just descended below the horizon but still lit up the clouds low in the west, making them look like red-hot embers. As Yells-at-Bears gaze crept upward, the sky colors changed, from yellow to white to ever darker shades of blue. At the zenith, and in the east, stars were already visible. Clear skies were unusual this time of year, but they happened.
“Pretty, yes?”
Isamu agreed. “And so are you,” he added in a whisper.
“Perhaps we should take a walk into the woods a bit.”
“Yes, let’s do that,” agreed Isamu. “Follow me.”
He led the way, and tried to squeeze between two bushes. “Fuck! I am caught on something. . . . There are thorns everywhere! Yells-at-Bears, help me.”
She laughed, saying, “Oyamada-san is caught by a big thorn bush. A naginata-bush.” She pulled out her knife and hacked at some strategic branches, freeing him.
“Are you hurt?”
“In my pride. Maybe some other places, too.”
“Take off your clothes. I must see if thorns are broken off in your wound. If so, the wound can fester.”
Isamu complied. “Well?”
“Turn-around slowly. . . . Again. . . .”
When he completed the second turn, Isamu found that Yells-at-Bears was only wearing her necklace.
“No thorns, but a nice view,” she remarked.
He reached for her.
“What’s wrong, Isamu?” asked Yells-at-Bears. She had noticed that he was not eating with his usual relish.
“Our encounter on Marsh Berry Creek ended well, but it could have gone badly. What if they change their mind about our arrangement and come back in force? Or some other Indian group decides to come up that creek and see what they can find that is worth their while?”
Yells-at-Bears popped another berry into her mouth. Her appetite, at least, was undiminished. “What do you propose we do?”
“Find a good vantage point that overlooks Marsh Berry Lake and where concealment is possible, and station a sentry there, at least during the daytime.”
“There are only eighteen of us, Isamu. And we already have sentries at Camp Double Six. Can we really afford to have another of our number keeping watch, rather than collecting water, food and other resources for surviving the winter?”
“Can we afford not to?”
Yells-at-Bears brooded about this for a few minutes. “I suppose that the sentry, on the way out to his post, could set out snares for small game, and then check them on the way back.
“But why by the lake, and not by the creek, somewhere downstream?”
“Because the lake is an obvious goal, and it can be reached without going upstream. From Saichi’s survey, we knew that as the crow flies, it couldn’t be more than half a mile from Marsh Berry Lake to the coast. Of course, it would be an uphill slog through the forest, without any trails we know of, but if you already knew the lake was there you could find it. And Fast-Drummer and his family certainly know about Marsh Berry Lake.”
Yells-at-Bears wiped the berry juice off her mouth. “I am sorry to add to your troubles, but what about Rattling Bird Lake?”
“What about it?”
“We know a stream runs out of the northeastern end, but where does it go? If Indians can seek Marsh Berry Lake from the south, why not by Rattling Bird Creek from the north?”
“Yes . . . it is possible . . . but less likely. Judging from the Ieyasu Maru’s maps, from Rattling Bird Lake to the northeast coast is at least three times as far as from Marsh Berry Lake to the southwest coast, and that assumes that there is a straight path.”
“If you aren’t worried, then I am not, either,” said Yells-at-Bears. “And I had best be off to weapons practice.”
Isamu brooded over Yells-at-Bears’ warning and by nightfall had decided that she was right. The Japanese had to know how accessible Rattling Bird Lake was from the northeast. For all they knew, there could be a village at the mouth of Rattling Bird Creek, wherever that might be.
He called Masaru into his office. “Masaru-san, I am going to explore where Rattling Bird Creek leads, make sure there is no cause for concern in that direction. Keep the men laying in food for the winter, and practicing with their weapons.”
“Who are you taking with you?”
“I was thinking . . . just Yells-at-Bears.”
Masaru frowned. “Then you better hope that there is indeed no cause for concern in that direction. How many natives do you think the two of you can fight off?”
“The point of keeping our numbers small is so we can move quietly and escape notice. And thus not need to fight off anyone.”
“Ah, you will rely on vigilance. I hope then that you avoid . . . distraction.”
Isamu didn’t like the curl of Masaru’s lip, but there was nothing plainly objectionable about what he had said.
Well, the bright side of Masaru’s antipathy toward Yells-at-Bears was that he didn’t have to worry about Masaru, the only other samurai on Texada, as a romantic rival.
“Should I bring my naginata?” Yells-at-Bears asked.
“No,” said Isamu. Seeing her crestfallen expression he added, “It is not because of any failing on your part. The naginata is a pole weapon, you need room to wield it. That’s why it is so often used in castle defense, or in battles on open fields. But we are going to be mostly in forest, and there it will be more trouble than it’s worth. Take your knife and bow.”
They left camp and walked at a brisk pace until they reached the head of Rattling Bird Creek.
The creek was a meandering thread of marshland. Where possible, they walked in the adjoining forest. As they did so, Yells-at-Bears told Isamu that given the lay of the land, later in the rainy season, the marsh might turn into a lake. Isamu found that of interest because there was higher ground in between Rattling Bird Lake on the west and this sometimes marsh-sometimes lake on the east. “A fort on that ground would thus have natural defenses,” he told her.
They followed the stream and found themselves turning north. After a time they came to another lake, a narrow one, running north-south. Their arrival disturbed a flock of geese that had been floating on the lake. These took flight, honking angrily at the two explorers. Yells-at-Bears immediately suggested the name “Angry Geese Lake,” to which Isamu agreed. They made camp by the lakeshore for the night.
The next day, they pressed on. It turned out that beyond Angry Geese Lake was another, smaller lake, running in the same direction, and connected by a short stream. Naturally, this was dubbed “Gosling Lake.” This, too had a north-running outlet, which they called Gosling Creek. First one stream joined Gosling Creek from the west, and then a second joined it from the southeast. Isamu wondered where these streams came from, but that was a question that would have to be answered another time.
After the second confluence, the stream became deep and fast, and the bank now provided a more solid footing.
The creek turned east, and after a time it was swelled by the waters of two more small tributaries. Knowing that they could not be far from the mysterious northeast coast, they slowed their walk, watching for footprints and broken branches, and pausing from time to time to listen for sounds that did not belong. But they found no signs of recent human presence.
They continued on until at last Gosling Creek opened onto a small V-shaped cove. They had reached the northeast coast of Texada Island.
To the east of the stream mouth, there was a sandy beach. Isamu and Yells-at-Bears, hand in hand, walked down to where the waters of the Malaspina Strait lapped onto the shore.
It started to get dark, and they retreated upstream and set up camp. After they had done so, Yells-at-Bears suggested they go to the hill overlooking the beach and see if they could get a better view of the opposite shore.
The view was a pleasing one . . . until the canoes appeared. There were at least a dozen of them, and Isamu guessed that they were forty or fifty feet long.
“War canoes,” Yells-at-Bears told him. She spoke in a whisper even though there was no way the warriors on board could possibly hear her. “Haida.”
Isamu knew from previous conversations that the Haida were a warlike people that lived on Haida Gwaii, the Queen Charlotte Islands, over three hundred miles northwest of Texada. Even the Kwakwaka’wakw of Vancouver Island, with whom the Ieyasu Maru had a run-in the previous year, were wary of them.
“I hope they are not going to Kalpilin,” Yells-at-Bears said fervently.
“Kalpilin?”
“It is a Shishalh village, on the other side of the Malaspina Strait, and to our southeast. My elder sister married a man from there. She is all the family I have left.”
Isamu knew that she had been taken in a Kwakwaka’wakw slave raid, but until now she had refused to say anything about the exact circumstances, or her family, and Isamu had thought it best not to press her. But apparently their temporary isolation from the rest of the Japanese, or the memories stirred by the sighting of the Haida war canoes, had prompted her to open up.
“Why do you say that? What happened to your family?”
“I was on the beach with a few other girls, gathering clams, when the Laich-kwil-tach raiders surprised us and bound us. As we were carried off, we could see our village burning.”
“That’s horrible. But couldn’t your parents have escaped the fire?”
“If they had, they would have ransomed me back. My father was the First-Man of our village, so he was wealthy. And he could have called for help from others. I was betrothed to a young man, of high status, from another village.
“Instead I was traded from one Kwakwaka’wakw band to another, until I ended up where the Ieyasu Maru found me.”
“How old were you when you were captured?”
“I was just twelve.” Isamu knew that she was now in her mid-twenties.
He hugged her. “I am sorry it took so long for you to regain your freedom. But you are one of us now.”
She returned the hug. But later that night, as they lay under the stars, she wondered to herself, “What am I, really? Will the colonists really accept me as one of them?
“Of course, whether or not the colonists accept me, there’s Isamu to look out for me. . . . But for how long? Will Isamu’s eyes wander once there are Japanese women on the island? Will he decide that it might be better to marry the daughter of some Tla’amin or Shishalh chief, in order to gain advantage in trade deals?
“And if he abandoned me, what would happen if I return to the Snuneymuxw? If I am known or even suspected to be an ex-slave, as seems likely, it would take a proper potlatch to restore my status, and I don’t have the resources for it.
“They might not even consider me Snuneymuxw any more, given how I have taken to Japanese ways. Am I Snuneymuxw or Nihonjin? Fish, fowl or neither?”
It was several hours before she fell asleep at last.