Wind Rises in North America 1625

Chapter 456 Ripples (Part Two)

On the way back, Martha's steps were lighter, and she clutched the two pieces of sugar tightly in her hand.

Father Ramirez and Mr. Rosta were waiting for her at the gate, and they both breathed a sigh of relief when they saw her return safely.

"How is it?" Rosta asked hurriedly, his hand unconsciously resting on the hilt of his sword at his waist.

Martha recounted everything she had seen in detail, speaking a little faster than usual: "There were about forty-five of them, five wooden huts, and a sailboat moored in the shallows with its sails furled, bearing red patterns. They had muskets, swords, and several fierce hunting dogs, and it seemed they intended to stay long-term. They said they were a geographical survey team, here to investigate ocean currents and coastal geography, and that they wanted to be friendly with us."

She held out her hand, revealing two pieces of white sugar in her palm: "They gave me...this."

Rosta took a piece of white sugar from her hand and looked at it in the sunlight. The sugar was crystal clear, without a single impurity, and very exquisite. "Hmm, this is white sugar produced by the New Chinese. I've seen these in Acapulco. I have to admit, the New Chinese are very skilled. I doubt anyone in all of Europe can make white sugar of this quality."

“No matter how sweet the candy of the heretics is, it still hides the devil’s temptation!” Father Ramirez smelled the candy, then quickly put it down, as if afraid of being defiled. “They have been smuggling through Black Shark Island for years, selling silk and wool to New Spain in exchange for our silver and wool. Now they have come here and set their greedy eyes on our land.”

“Since they intend to stay here permanently, they could pose a significant threat to us,” Rosta sighed. “Although we are outnumbered, I believe it is absolutely necessary to fight them to the death if they attack us in order to defend our dignity and honor.”

“God will protect us,” Father Ramirez said firmly, making the sign of the cross.

“We have twenty-eight men, twelve of whom are able-bodied young men, and some weapons for self-defense,” Rosta said. “However, our weapons lack the necessary maintenance and upkeep. The barrels of five muskets are rusted, and the triggers of two others are broken. We also only have one barrel of gunpowder, which is clumped together and leaked during last year’s rainy season, so its effectiveness will likely be reduced.”

“Oh, damn it! When smallpox broke out last year, Brother Leo, who was in charge of guarding the warehouse, died of the disease. The rest of us were busy taking care of the sick, and by the time we remembered the warehouse, the gunpowder had already gotten damp. It doesn’t matter, we can take advantage of the good weather these next few days to pour it out and air it out, sift out the hard lumps, and it will still be usable.”

"By the way, several sections of our wooden fence are damaged. A storm last winter washed the stakes out of shape, and the easternmost gap is wide enough for two people to walk side by side. We haven't had time to repair it. If they launch an attack now, we probably won't be able to hold it. So, we need to mobilize everyone. The women will be responsible for pounding corn and boiling water, the children will help pass messages, and the men will build the stockade walls and fortifications. Everyone must fulfill their duty to defend our home!"

“Martha said they are willing to live in harmony and not infringe on each other’s rights,” Garcia said hesitantly. He was an immigrant from Mexico City last year and still held a glimmer of hope. “Besides, I’ve heard that the new Chinese business owners are very principled. Sailors who have been to Black Shark Island said they never force anyone to buy or sell, and all the prices they offer are fair. Maybe… we really can be good neighbors with them.”

“Friendly?” Rosta sneered. “How can pagans and Christians be friendly? They don’t believe in God, they don’t respect the Virgin Mary. They’re building cabins and camps here to turn this land into their territory! Once they’ve established themselves, they’ll drive us out just like they drove out those Indian tribes!”

“Last year’s smallpox epidemic killed more than half of our population, and thousands of people from the surrounding Native American tribes also died. Now our population is sparse, and they chose this time to come because they saw us as weak!”

Father Ramirez glanced at Garcia, who dared not speak, and shook his head: "The Lord said to love your neighbor, but not to love the infidels. No matter how sweet their sugar is, it can't be sweeter than the wine of communion; no matter how sharp their swords are, they can't be brighter than the glory of God. We must hold San Diego, hold the mission post, and wait for Mexican support!"

With that, he snatched the remaining candy from Martha's hand, threw it hard on the ground, and turned to walk toward the church.

As the crowd dispersed, some with resentment and others with fear, Martha was filled with doubt.

Those new Chinese immigrants didn't seem like bad people; in fact, they all looked very friendly.

Will they rush in and kill and burn? Like the priest said, destroy the church and steal the food?
Her gaze slowly shifted to the piece of white sugar on the ground, which was covered with a little dirt and looked particularly out of place on the sand.

She took a few steps forward, squatted down, carefully picked it up, and blew on it.

After hesitating for only a few seconds, she stuck out her tongue and tentatively licked it.

So sweet!

Lick it a few more times.

It's still... very sweet.

The sweetness spread on the tip of my tongue and slid down my throat, easing the tension in my heart.

Her mood immediately improved, and her eyes and brows relaxed, like the sky after the rain.

She stood up, stuffed the candy into her mouth, and then walked lightly toward her little house.

As evening approached, the sea breeze turned cool, and a mist carrying the scent of the sea began to spread, like a thin veil covering the rooftops of Fort San Diego.

Inside the church, a dim oil lamp illuminated the altar, its wick sparking tiny flames that cast the shadows of the icons onto the wall, their size shifting.

After Father Ramirez finished the final Mass, he clasped his hands together and turned to look at the residents in the shadows, whose faces appeared tired and bewildered in the dim light.

"Alright, everyone, get some rest. Tomorrow, there's much more to do. God will bless us!" His voice echoed in the empty church.

“Father.” Rosta stood up, hesitated for a moment, and then said in a low voice, “Father, could you go to the Ota and Simi tribes tomorrow? Their camps are not far from here, you can get there in a day.”

“Okay, I will go.” Father Ramirez nodded; he understood what Rosta meant.

The priest did not respond, but remained kneeling before the icon, his hands clasped together, his lips moving, his voice as soft as a feather: "Lord, please grant us strength..."

The candlelight shone on his gray hair, giving it a golden edge, making him look like a saint descending to earth.

But in the swaying light and shadow, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and the tightly pursed corners of his mouth concealed an unspeakable weariness and struggle.
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(End of this chapter)