AMIRAH

From Bacolor in the Province of Pampanga, this Year of Our Lord 1765.

Reverend Father,

Obedient to your Command that all Matters of Note in these remote Islands be faithfully transmitted to Mexico, I set forth the Relation here enclosed, concerning certain Acts of Providence that befell during the Siege of Manilla by the English. Forasmuch as idle Rumour hath already cross’d the Ocean, painting our Society as negligent or complicit, I, Reverend Father Joaquin del Rayo, Priest and Confessor of the Society of Jesus, born in the sea‑town of Cádiz in the Kingdom of Spain, do humbly set forth this faithful Relation of a bewildering Incident which befell during the Siege of Manilla undertaken by the forces of His Britannick Majesty in the Year of Our Lord 1762. I write not for idle flourish of Tale‑Telling, but to shew how, amid the Roar and Terror of Cannon, the most terrible Necessities will, by the queer Reckoning of Emergency, oftentimes compel Men who traffick in Violence on a fair Day to account themselves to Pity and perform those Offices of God’s Will to astonish both Witness and Sinner alike. The particulars here set down were collect'd and compar'd from the Depositions of sundry Soldiers and Officers of the Garrison of Manilla and from the Testimonies of Women employ'd about a certain Houses of ill Repute in that City. The Military here testifying to the Order and Course of Martial Occurrence; the Women to the Hours, the Passages, and the Names of Persons concern'd. These various Attestations I have caus'd to be put into Writing and laid together with those of my own Recollections of the Siege, that this brief Narrative may present itself as near to the Truth of the Fact as human Memory and the Variety of Eyewitnesses will permit, and that it may be offer'd to you, Most Reverend Provincial, as plain Evidence of God's Wisdom shewn among Sinners when Arms and Law seem'd to fail. Let it stand on Record that, betwixt the Night of October the 5th and the Morning of the 6th, there was witness’d a Confusion past all Understanding, wherein the Structures of Men gave way, and yet from their very Collapse arose Motions unlook’d‑for, as if Renewal were conceal’d within Ruin itself, and a poor Indio's Fate and a Woman's Flight were not mere Episodes of Vice and Violence but Acts in which Providence found a Human Instrument. Herein I humbly tender this Relation for your Discretion and for the Service of the Society.

The long‑sustain’d and most destructive Bombardment of the City, tenacious since the 24th of September, wax’d yet more furious before the Hour of Midnight on the 5th Day of October, when the Brittanick Gun‑Ships in the Bay of Manilla redoubl’d their Ordnance in relentless Broadsides, cleaving the Night with Iron and Flame. The said enemy Squadron, of eight Ships of the Line and three Frigates, lay in Line of Bataille without the Mouth of the Great River Pasig, with Tenders and Transports drawn to Windward and small Boats and Shore‑Batteries post'd at the River‑Mouth to harry the Landings. From the low Flats and Causeways without the City, the English field‑batteries of took up the Cannonade, blasting the Walls and Ramparts of the City, splintering bulwarks, and kindling fierce Conflagrations among the timber'd Houses within. Permit me, Reverend Provincial, to set forth that those were most anarchick Times within the City Walls. For several Days, the Palace had been a Theatre of Discord, the Archbishop urging Submission as the only Christian Course, whilst the Commanders, puff’d with Honour, swore that to yield were to betray both King and Empire. Orders issu’d at Dawn were contradicted by Vespers, each Authority claiming the Right to Command, none willing to obey. The Augustinians spoke as if these Islands were theirs by Apostolic Right, the Franciscans preach’d Resistance from the Pulpit yet dined with the Capitulators, the Recollects clamour’d for stricter Mortifications whilst securing their own Estates against Plunder, and the Dominicans declaim’d upon the Crown’s Authority even as they whisper’d to the Archbishop that the City must yield. Meanwhile, the Treasury was near empty, the Pay of Soldiers long in Arrear, and the Indio Troops whisper’d of Desertion, their Families left to Famine and Plunder. In the Streets the Natives mutter’d of Saints who turn’d their Faces away, of Spirits restless in the Night, of Omens seen in the Skies above Cavite. In the very throat of this Confusion, Spanish Commanders, whose Lamps yet burnt in the Night‑Tents, dispatch’d a certain Indio, a Veteran of the Wars against the Moros of Sooloo, long prov’d in Fidelity, and reckon’d among them as one who might be trust’d with Errands most perilous. This Indio stole forth on a native outrigger’d canoe, passing without Noise beyond the Enemy’s Lines, to take Account of their Marches and the Disposition of their Troops, and most particularly the placing of their Batteries—those Engines of Thunder whose sudden Voices would at Dawn undo the City entire.

His name was Francisco Tiburon, an Indio Mercenary in the pay of His Catholick Majesty. He was presently among the tangl’d Underwood without the City-Walls, Body press’d to the ground, Musket charg’d and ready, having but now fulfill’d his Commission. From his Vantage near the British Batteries on Pampaloc Hill hard by the Banks of the Pasig, the Indio beheld little but Darkness thick as Pitch, whilst from within the City‑Walls there issu’d at intervals the dull Thump of Cannon and the fitful Glimmer of Fire. His Brittanick Majesty’s Forces return’d Fire with equal Fury, and every thunderous Peal from their Twenty-Four Pounders lit for an instant the jagg'd Earth‑works, the timbers riven, and the serried Ranks of Men picking their Passage through miry Ditches and clinging Mud, even as the whole Detail reel'd beneath a hail of Shot and Flame. In the midst of this Exchange, the Indio mov'd as one who keep'd Account with Fear and Fortune, observant of every Scrape and Whisper, and reserv'd himself for that Occasion which might demand either Flight or Sudden Action. The Enemy was every-where about him, swarming with Torches from all Sides — British Regulars in their red Coats, Sepoys from the East‑Indies in the pale Livery of their Corps, Pampango mercenaries slipping through the tall Grass with bare Feet on native Soil. They pass’d in Line out of the Tall Grass, out of the Blackness, and push’d toward the Walls, following Trails of rotted Vegetation and crush’d wildflowers, passing so close as to brush his Hat with the Hems of their Coats, yet missing to tread upon him by a Miracle of Inches. Indeed, it was only by a Mixture of Chance and that peculiar Rashness Men call Courage that he found his Way past the Works, hugging Shadow and Low‑Brick beyond the sentries’ reach. Cloak’d by Night, he crawl’d down to the Water‑line where Reeds conceal’d his canoe, drew it forth, settl’d himself within, and with a cautious Thrust push’d off into the Current.

I should acquaint the Reverend Father Provincial that the River Pasig is a long and sovereign Channel between Hill and Sea that cleaveth the City of Manilla. In the Daytime, it is a thoroughfare of Boats, Barges, and Rafts; of Cargoes, Markets, and Customs. By Night the same Waters revert to an older Order; and a fierce savagery reclaims its Currents. Crocodiles, Mud and Mangrove take dominion; and the River becomes a thing that will not be domesticat’d, indistinguishable from the Jungle, tho’ men have long taught it to carry their Cargo. Out upon these very Waters, Tiburon beheld the Fires pent within the City‑Walls casting a pale orange Glow above the Parapets, as if the very Air wore the City’s Combustions like a Crown of Flame. Upon brushing the Pilings of the Parian Landings, he step'd ashore and found the District of Binondo in the grip of Panic—the torchlit Wharfs overrun with Persons of every Description full desperate to be gone before the City fell to the Depravations of the British, the throng crying out in Babel’d Tongues, dragging Trunks, Chickens, Hogs, half-naked children, aged Parents, all in a Rush, each Soul looking seaward as if the Horizon might open a Passage to miraculous Deliverance.

Elsewhere amid the clamorous and many‑angled Lanes and Tenement Houses of the District, Captain Jerónimo Ffogg was reclin’d ’pon a Divan in the Parlour of Li’s House of Pleasure, a notorious Establishment arrang’d in the European Taste, hung with Flemish Tapestries and gilt Mirrors, where Courtezans of renown were kept in costly Apparel, and the Tables were ever-laden with Cards, Dice, and Wine, the whole maintain’d as much for Gaming as for Carnal Diversion, and frequented by Officers, Friars of the various Orders, and Merchants alike. The Captain was known to spend his Nights among the Bawds of the Establishment, his Days in a perpetual Soaking of Li’s Rum. He was presently attend’d by the paint’d Girls of the House, his Dragoon’s Coat unbutton’d, his Wig askew. Rosewater, Jasmine and Musk scent'd the Air, and Women of mix’d Race reclin'd upon Chairs and Ottomans ‘round him in various Degrees of Undress, their Shoulders bare to the Lamp‑light, their Mouths inclin’d to whispers half‑heard, half‑lost in the gentle chime of Porcelain and the Rustle of Silk. A Hand linger’d upon his Sleeve, another brush’d against his Neck, whilst the Parlour’s Perfume grew dense as Incense. In another Corner of the Room, ‘round a scarred Table in an alcove cloud’d with Tobacco-Fume, were other Spaniards — traders, Customs Wardens, Catalan Merchants — staking Coin at a Game of Faro. Li Wen‑hao — Keeper of the House— look'd on beneath a lantern near the door; and Two of the Captain’s Dragoons kept Vigil by the Door, heels snapp’d together, Muskets Vertical, faces weary from long practice in guarding both Ffogg and his Peccadilloes.

Long before English Guns were heard on these Islands, ‘twas murmur’d that Li’s Fortune was not confin’d to the Tables and Traffick in the Flesh alone, but extended unto the very Galleon Trade itself, where, by Connivance of certain Officers of the Real Hacienda, he obtain’d Shares in Manifests never enter’d, and Privileges at the Customs‑House deny’d to others. Some swore he kept hidden strong‑boxes beneath the very Floors of his Parlour. Thus did Li’s House acquire its Fame, a Place where the Affairs of Empire and the Pleasures of the Flesh were barter’d without Distinction, and where Treasure, like Water, flow’d unseen beneath the plank Floors.

“Tiburon,” Ffogg call’d out with a Snap of his Fingers when he saw the Indio come in, tho’ it was his inclination to observe instead a Girl who, with great solemnity, was attempting to balance upon her Head a Bowl of Chinese oranges, whilst another, no less intent, sought to filch them one by one with her Toes. “What news have you of your Commission?”

Tiburon doff’d his Hat and advanc’d, looking at once uncomfortable and out of place, his Boots shedding clods of field‑mud across the floor. I had Occasion once, some Years since, in the Course of my Priestly Duties, to meet this peculiar Indio, and he did strike me then as a Coxcomb, affecting the Modes of Madrid with a Confidence most unseemly in one of his Nation. He wore a Weather‑streak’d Greatcoat of patch’d Broadcloth and Oilskin, liken’d in the Parish Annals (where his Name appeareth half‑smudg’d) to a tattr’d Ruin. His Breeches were tuck’d into Boots, his Neck‑cloth tinctur’d by Tobacco and Salt‑Air. Upon his head was a broad‑brimm'd Slouch Hat, cock’d rakishly, the Crown pinn’d with a Shark‑tooth. Amidst this Array were the Implements of his Trade -- the Musket athwart his shoulder, and the Pistol, tuck’d in his Sash.

“Their Troops advance in close order, ladders and fascines in hand, moving to breach between San Diego and San Andrés,” Tiburon said.

“Let them come,” Ffogg said. “Those yellow-liver’d, powder’d Fops could scarce gain the Cover’d Way without first consulting their Dancing‑Masters.”

At once the Chamber erupt’d with Laughter—Men and Women alike seiz’d by some common Fit. Tiburon, rocking uneasie upon his Feet, the Weight of him restless to and fro, and murmur’d of the Archbishop’s talk of Capitulation.

“Why, the Commanders prate of Reinforcement from Pampanga, and of the Galleon from Acapulco riding even now upon the Tide,” Ffogg said, arms flung wide. “Would’st thou have us yield the City without a Shot?”

Tiburon look’d down upon the Floor and held his Tongue—nor was there any Soul present who’d have ventur’d to fault him for’t. I myself had known the Captain in those Days, and heard the Whispers that follow’d his Name from Dockside to Drawing‑Room, each Tale enlarg’d with fresh Horrors, yet none exceeding the Truth of the Man. In him was a certain Bravado, flamboyant as a Peacock’s Tail, yet beneath it lurk’d a Violence sudden and ungovern’d, so that Men about him—Tiburon not least—held their Breath as in the Presence of a ferocious Beast. He presently reached beneath his Coat, brought forth a Pouch of Coin, held it aloft for all to see, then press’d it into the Indio’s Palm. “Your Pay,” he announc’d, whereupon, with a Devil’s impromptu, he deliver’d a smart Smack upon the Bum of a passing Girl. The brisk Clap caus’d a coquettish Yelp from the Strumpet, which did lift eyes from the Faro Table.

The Indio was about to depart when he -- as did most ev’ry Soul present, be they seated, standing, or in some Posture betwixt -- felt a Change in the Air that made Conversation stumble and Glasses rest mid-Raise. The Parlour itself shift’d its Temper – those who had been counting their Wagers put down their Hands as if some quiet Order had been given. Heads turn’d toward the Parlour’s Foyer, and there beheld the Cause of the Hush.

Her name was Amirah, a long-esteem’d and most sought‑after Courtezan of the Quarter, a Mestiza whose Fame for Grace and Composure was spread from Intramuros to the Shore. She presently stood at the Foyer with round Eyes like darkened Pools, and a rosy Mouth that held reserve a ready laugh or a furtive Smile. Her Body announc’d its Voluptuous Presence under a scant Robe à la Françoise without apology, embroider’d as it was with glassy Beetle‑Wing and gilt Thread. At her Side linger’d a Child, no more than six or seven, christen’d María‑Luz, whose Mother, a Woman employ’d in the Establishment, had lately gone to Earth. She wore a shift of coarse Cotton, once white, now stain’d by the Dust and Ashes of the Street. Her dark Eyes observ’d all with a solemnity well beyond her Years.

“My Princess,” Ffogg beckon’d ‘pon beholding Amirah, lashes a-flutter, his lips purs’d. “Come hither and grace your poor servant, who has miss’d you so.”

Amirah lean’d to the Child, her Lips moving in a murmur too soft for any Ear, whereupon little María‑Luz darted away upon light Feet, vanishing into the recesses of the House. A hush remain’d in her Wake, and into that Silence Amirah herself seem’d to alter—the play of her Features, the very Carriage of her Shoulders, now turn’d wholly toward the Theatre of Desire. With a languor studied yet unashamed, she cross’d the Room, each step a small Declaration, till she stood before Ffog. Thereupon she lift’d her skirt and with a slow, feline ease lower’d herself upon his Lap. The Men in the Room watch’d her in the blunt way of Men who have much to buy and little to give. She was already full in her Profession, no longer Learner nor kept in the Back Rooms, but one of those whose Name was known to the better Clients, whose Time must be reserv’d, and whose Smile was reckon’d in Coin. Sold to Li to answer a Father’s Gaming-Debt when she was no more than Maria-Luz’s age, she learn’d to barter Glances as one learns a Language, and she kept about her the small Virtues one sees in Women in her Trade who survive. She had learn’d the Arts of that House not as mere Instruction but as Profession -- how to make Laughter earn its daily Bread, how to turn a Client’s rapaciousness into Coin, how to give Pleasure without Surrendering the inmost Cabinet of her Soul.

Tiburon, having linger’d Hat in Hand, bow’d slightly, saying, “Sir, I take my Leave.”

“Return for me at Daybreak,” Ffog said o’er Amirah’s shoulder, “for then we go within the Walls, to the Garrison.”

There remains, as is oft the Case in Matters of Testimony, a mark’d Discrepancy in the Accounts of Tiburon’s Departure from Li’s House in the early Hours of the 6th of October. Certain Witnesses affirm he quit the Place in Anger; others, that his Countenance betray’d Anxiety, occasion’d perhaps by the lamentable Condition of the City’s Defenses. Yet others, with equal Assurance, place him in a Tavern much frequent’d by Indios, or upon the Ramparts at the Bastion of San Diego, or even in the Opium‑Den not far from Li’s own Threshold. The sole Point upon which all concur is that his Exit was abrupt—and such unanimity, rather than resolving the Matter, must incline us to suspect that some deeper Contradiction lies conceal’d. In sober Fact, the Women of the House—those Observers whose Judgments, tho’ often disregarded, are sharpen’d by long Acquaintance with the Passions of Men—maintain the Indio held Amirah in a Regard uncommon, his Eyes following her with a Patience that ask’d for nothing, his Days arrang’d so that some Portion might be spent within the calm of her Vicinity, tho’ no Word ever pass’d between them. If the Women’s Report be true, the Indio must have felt a most bitter Anguish, beholding Amirah compell’d into so base a Traffic, a Profanation grievous in its Disparity to the Grace she bore. Being frequently present to render Reports unto Ffogg, whose Custom ’twas to receive his Hirelings within Li’s House, the Indio was thereby continually expos’d to Amirah’s Company. The Girls swear that in her Presence he was alter’d—as if her very Bearing, exact and serene, did cast into sharper Relief the Misfortune that hemm’d her round. Yet whether this were true Affection, or but the common Sickness of Men who mistake Proximity for Providence, none may say with Certainty. For what stirreth in the Heart of Men—be it Love, Guilt, or some unnam’d Sentiment born of too many Nights spent in Rooms where Souls are weigh’d in Coin—is known only to that inward Tribunal where no Witness is suffer’d.

Wherefore what next ensu’d was reckon’d by many as a Turn of Events so unlikely, so precisely arrang’d in their Coincidence, that only Providence could have compos’d it. For scarce had the Archbishop sign’d his Proclamation of Solemn Fast, when word arriv’d that the Treasure‑Galleon from Acapulco, long delay’d by Storms, had been sighted off Cavite, its Cargo of Silver and Powder enough to prolong the Defence, yet its Captain refus’d the Port, fearing Capture, and stood away into the open Sea, leaving the City to its Fate; and thus it was, in the very Hour of this Disappointment, that the Bastion of San Diego, long batter’d by Cannon, gave way at last, and -- as the Indio had warn’d -- the British, with a Clamor of Drums and a Hail of Musket‑Fire, pour’d thro’ the Breach, seizing the Walls as if they were but Stage‑Props in some Morality‑Play. ’Twas then that Pandemonium, long waiting in the Wings, rush’d upon the City—Spaniards fleeing in Disorder, Priests clutching at Reliquaries, Indios and Chinese Merchants alike crying out in Terror, whilst the Smoke of burning Powder mingl’d with the Bells of Churches tolling as if for the Last Judgment. Some swore they heard Voices in the Tumult, Angels and Demons disputing above the din—others observ’d only that the British Grenadiers advanc’d with unnerving Regularity, bayonets glinting like new‑minted Coin. Within the Streets, Doors were forc’d, Shops plunder’d, and the very Order of the World seem’d to subvert itself.

“’Tis God’s Will,” a Friar of the Augustinian Order is said to have cried. “Tho’ lately His Will resembles British Artillery!”

Witnesses to the events I have thus far narrated do yet agree that ’twas about this Moment Tiburon return’d unto Li’s House, Musket prim’d and ready, his Countenance set in so stern and wrathful a Mien that all within were struck to Silence. He proceed’d to the Upper Floor directly, his Step upon the Stair hard and certain as one long Resolved upon the Course. One by one the Mercenary set his Boot to the Doors, splintering each in a Fury—and out came the startl’d Inhabitants, Courtezans and their Clients together, at times three or more tumbling from a single Chamber, till at length appear’d, most unaccountably, a naked Dwarf in a Cavalier’s Hat astride a Goat. ’Twas as if the very Walls conspir’d to disgorge an endless Pageant of Grotesquerie, many unclad and squealing, their Exposures proclaim’d with such frankness as might have shock’d the Angels. When at last the Mercenary arriv’d before that Chamber wherein Ffogg and Amirah were presently engag’d in their own Mysteries, the Door gave way beneath his Kick with such force it flew back upon the Hinges like a Cannon‑Shot. What pass’d within remain’d unseen, for no Witness dared intrude. There were Voices rais’d, an Argument, then a loud Blast—and soon Tiburon emerg’d, Musket slung, dragging Amirah forth, her Form conceal’d only by a hastily clutch’d Blanket. Descending with the Woman in his Arm, Tiburon came upon Ffogg’s two Dragoons upon the Landing. One discharg’d his Musket at once, the Report echoing up the Stair. Tiburón turn’d, drawing Amirah aside, and in that Motion lost his Step, so that both went tumbling down the Flight. Tiburon’s Skull struck the Rail, then the Edge of a Tread, each Blow near to unman him. Amirah, naked beneath the Blanket, strove to keep it drawn about her, but as they roll’d it flew open, her Body flashing in the pale Light that fell through the Parlour Windows, adding to the Soldiers’ Disarray. They crash’d full into the Dragoons, knocking them sprawling, Hats and Gorgets spinning, Cartouche‑Boxes burst and spilling; whilst Tiburón and Amirah, bruis’d, half‑stunn’d, and entangled in Blanket and Limb, roll’d to a halt in a Heap.

Scarce had this Spectacle impress’d itself upon the Company below, when from the Heavens there descended a Mortar‑Shell—its Fuse sputtering like the Tail of a Comet, its Trajectory as enigmatic as Fate itself, proceeding in that same instant from the far and damp Yards of Woolwich where the Great River Thames bends broad and brown about the Isle of Dogs, past the low Fields wherein Labourers do curse the Rain and the Clay that clings to their Boots, past the Rows of Cottages whose Windows admit the Smoke of the Foundries, where Men with Faces blacken’d by Soot and Eyes red from the Furnace did hammer and pour, casting Iron into Forms whose Purpose they scarce consider’d, whilst their Wives kept Gardens of Cabbage and purple Gooseberry, and their Children play’d at War with Sticks upon the Dandelions and yellow Buttercups of the Common, the Shell itself having been lifted from those Moulds, borne upon Carts creaking through Villages where Innkeepers rang their Bells for Ale and drovers urg’d their Herds aside, thence to the Docks where it was stow’d in the dark Belly of a Ship that smelt of Tar and Salt, carried across Seas whose Tempests howl’d in the Rigging, ‘round the wind-blown Cape, o’er the endless Swells of the Indian Ocean, till at last it arriv’d with the Fleet before Manilla, and now, having flown its Arc in Fire upon the Dawn, it fell with a Whistling that pierc’d the Roof of Li’s Parlour in Binondo, scattering Plaster and Timber and setting the Company to shrieks, as if all the long History of its forging, its transport, its keeping, had been but a single Breath held in the World’s Chest, now exhal’d in Ruin. There, the Charge took Fire and burst the Shell with a Violence of Sound so Fierce that all present at the time declar’d it must have been the Voice of God. The East Wall of the Parlour fell away almost entire, and the breach admitt’d the first Rays of Sunrise so that the Air came alive with flowing Prisms. The Explosion tore open not only the Parlour, but also -- as I must suppose -- Li’s subterranean Strong‑Boxes, for in the Wake of that Thunder there began to descend a Rain of Silver, bejeweled Chains, Gold Rings, and Stones of every Hue—the tempest of Treasure clattering across the Floorboards, where each Gem caught the brilliant Light of Dawn and answer’d with its own sparkling. Rubies smoulder’d like embers, Sapphires glimmer’d with the cool of distant Seas, Emeralds shone with the green of Eden unfallen—and all these luminous Colors, mingling with the Dust and Smoke, compos’d a Vision at once terrible and ravishing. Amidst this Radiance, the Women, some yet unclad, fell to their Knees, their Hands seizing what they might. The Faro‑Players too, who but moments before had been intent upon their Cards, now heav’d aside the Table and gather’d up handfuls of Coin and Jewel. Li, bloodied and blacken’d, stagger’d forth to forbid them, tears coursing uncheck’d o’er his brow, yet his Voice was lost in the Clamor, his Hands too feeble to restrain. Tiburon himself stoop’d to snatch up a Sack heavy with Gems, whilst Amirah, her Body conceal’d only by the Blanket, gather’d into its folds as much of the fallen Wealth as she could bear.

All who Witness’d that Moment most extraordinary are in Accord that Tiburon and Amirah, burden’d with their sudden Fortune, fled together into the Street, intent upon the Quays. Yet scarce had they gone a dozen Paces when they turn’d about, rushing back toward the smoking Rubble, where now a greater Multitude had quickly gather’d, each fix’d upon seizing what remain’d of Li’s Treasure. The Street itself had become a Torrent of Humanity—Indios in ragged Cotton, Chinese Merchants clutching tally-books and sacks, Mestizas with hair unbound, Friars of uncertain Allegiance, even Sepoys who had cast aside their Arms—all pressing toward the Water, for the British were advancing, and their Muskets already crack’d in the Streets.

“Maria-Luz,” Amirah cried, and from the Ashes there crept forth the little Girl, her Face blacken’d with Soot. Amirah seiz’d her Hand, and with Tiburon at her side, they plung’d once more into the human Flood, bending low beneath the whistling Shot, the three hastening toward the Quay as the City about them dissolv’d into Smoke, Fire, and the mad Clamor of Escape.

No Man can attest to the precise Moment when Tiburon receiv’d the fatal Wound. Some aver it was amidst his Encounter with Ffogg’s Dragoons; others, that it issu’d from the Mortar Round which laid open Li’s Parlour; yet others maintain the shot came amidst that headlong Rush unto the Quays, when all about were pressing forward in Tumult and Desperation, and the very Stones beneath their Feet trembl’d with the Fury of Pursuit. What remaineth beyond Dispute is only this, that by the Time they gain’d his Canoe, the Blood was flowing from the Indio in such Quantity as to leave no Hope, and there, sink’d upon the Hollow of the Canoe, he breath’d his last.

Reverend Father, that morning I watch'd the City fall into the Fluxions of small Unseens, and in moonlit nights since, between Watch and Prayer, I have come to observe a Truth which at first affronted all my Scholastic Comforts --- that what Men call Disorder is not a mere absence of Providence but Providence by another Name. I speak this within the Cloister as both Confession and Inquiry; as one who hath kept Accounts with Sickness, with Siege, with the errant Bullet, and who found the Book would not Balance unless the Hand that writes it were reckon’d among the Causes. Once it pleas’d me to imagine Providence a single Line, an orderly Dispenser, a Magistrate arranging and chastising by a Registry of Morals. Yet in my long Watches I have perceiv’d the Divine Manner not as that of a Clerk with neat Columns, but as an Infinite Merchant, whose Tallies are kept in Tally-Books no Man may read entire. I put forth that what oft seems to our Eyes Waste or Chance is but the Method whereby the Whole is tended. Disorder, then, is oft the very Mode of Providence’s Activity, the Apparatus by which Ends are accomplish’d without the Pretence of particular Prescription. Mark, Reverend Provincial, how small Accidents conspire toward greater Good, though each Accident be blind to the Other. The Confusion of War seizeth two Souls, and in the same Knot of human Relations looseth two others from a grievous Bondage. These are not Miracles of Contradiction, but the ordinary Letters by which Providence writes. And if at times the Script appears in Blots, in Marginalia, in sudden Bursts of Nonsense—be assur’d, Reverend Father, that these too are part of the strange Grammar of the Eternal, who delights to write His Story not in Lines but in Spirals, not in Order but in Upheaval, so that even the Angels, if any are on Watch, scratch their heads in Bewilderment.

Of the woman, Amirah, I can report little with Certainty. The last Word that reach’d me told of her in the Province of Batangas, where she is said to be mistress of a thriving Farm, her Beauty undiminish’d, her Countenance serene with Happiness.

Maria‑Luz abides with her yet, the Mirth return’d unto her Eyes, the Seasons unfolding before her in Birdsong, whilst Providence, ever conspirant, bends its Course toward their keeping.

I remain, in all Obedience,

Your humble Servant in Christ.

Joaquin del Rayo, S.J.

Carlos Castillo studied English literature and creative writing at the University of Santo Tomas, in the Republic of the Philippines. He published poetry and fiction while in college and has since written for various digital marketing companies. He regularly submits prose for literary magazines and websites. He is presently a speech and policy writer for the Philippine Department of Agriculture.