By this time, I was so determined to cross over to the continent with Friday that I told him we would build a boat as large as the one he had described, so that he could finally return home. To my surprise, he did not say a word, but instead looked remarkably grave and dejected. When I asked him what was troubling him, he replied with a question: "Why are you so angry with Friday? What have I done to offend you?"
I assured him that I was not angry at all. "If you are not angry," he asked, repeating the words several times, "then why do you wish to send Friday away to his own nation?" I reminded him that he had expressed a longing to be there. "Yes, yes," he answered earnestly, "but I wish for us both to be there. I have no desire to be there if my master is not." In short, he could not bear the thought of leaving without me.
"But what would I do there, Friday?" I asked.
He turned toward me quickly. "You would do a great deal of good," he claimed. "You would teach the wild men to be civilized and sober. You would teach them to know God, to pray, and to lead a new life." I sighed, telling him that I was merely an ignorant man myself, but he insisted, "You taught me what is good; you can teach them as well." When I told him he should go alone and leave me to my solitude, he looked utterly confused. He ran to one of the hatchets he usually wore, snatched it up, and handed it to me.
"What do you want me to do with this?" I asked.
"You should kill Friday," he said. When I asked why on earth I would do such a thing, he replied, "Why do you send Friday away? It is better to kill Friday than to send him away." He spoke with such sincerity that I saw tears welling in his eyes. His deep affection for me was so evident that I promised him right then—and many times afterward—that I would never send him away as long as he wished to stay.
Realizing his loyalty was unshakable, and that his desire to return home was rooted in a hope that I might help his people, I decided to attempt the escape. I gathered from our conversations that there were seventeen bearded men living among his tribe, and I felt a strong inclination to reach them. Without further delay, Friday and I went to work to find a tree suitable for building a large periagua, or canoe.
There were plenty of trees on the island, but the most important factor was finding one near the water so that we could launch it easily—a mistake I had made once before. Friday chose a tree that he knew would be ideal; I am still not entirely sure what species it was, though it resembled fustic in its colour and scent. Friday wanted to hollow out the trunk using fire, but I showed him how to use tools instead. He proved to be very handy, and after a month of laborious effort, we finished a handsome vessel. Its hull was perfectly shaped, and it was large enough to carry twenty men with ease.
Getting the boat into the water took another two weeks of intense effort as we moved it inch by inch on large rollers. Once it was afloat, I was amazed by Friday’s dexterity; he could turn and paddle the heavy craft with incredible speed. I asked him if he would venture across the ocean in it. "Yes," he said confidently, "we could cross in her even if the wind blew hard."
However, I had a more sophisticated design in mind. I intended to fit the boat with a mast and a sail, as well as an anchor and cable. Finding a straight young cedar for the mast was easy enough, but the sail required more care. I had several old sails that had been sitting in storage for twenty-six years. Most were rotten, but I managed to find two pieces that were still relatively strong. With a great deal of effort and some rather awkward stitching—as I lacked proper needles—I fashioned a triangular sail. To complete the craft, I spent nearly two months fitting the rigging and, most importantly, attaching a rudder to the stern for steering. Although I was a clumsy shipwright, I knew a rudder was essential, and after many failed attempts, I finally succeeded.
Next, I had to teach Friday the art of navigation. While he was a master with a paddle, he knew nothing of sails or rudders. He stood in utter astonishment as he watched me use the rudder to steer the boat and observed how the sail filled with wind to propel us forward. In time, he became an expert sailor, though he could never quite grasp the concept of the compass. Fortunately, the weather was rarely cloudy and fogs were non-existent, so we could rely on the stars by night and the coastline by day.
I had now entered my twenty-seventh year on the island. I kept the anniversary of my landing with even greater gratitude than before, for I felt an invincible impression that my deliverance was finally at hand. Nevertheless, I continued my daily work—farming, fencing, and curing my grapes—as I always had.
The rainy season arrived, and we secured our new vessel in a small dock Friday had dug in the creek. We covered it with thick boughs to protect it from the rain, like a thatched roof, and waited for November or December to begin our voyage.
When the weather finally cleared, I began preparing our provisions. One morning, while I was busy with these tasks, I sent Friday to the shore to look for a turtle. He had not been gone long when he came sprinting back, leaping over my outer wall with incredible speed. Before I could even speak, he cried out, "O master! O master! O sorrow! O bad!"
"What is the matter, Friday?" I asked.
"Over there!" he gasped. "One, two, three canoes!"
I heartened him as best I could, but the poor fellow was terrified. He was convinced they had come specifically to hunt him down and eat him. He trembled so violently that I struggled to calm him. I told him that I was in just as much danger as he was and that we must resolve to fight. "I can shoot," he said, "but there are so many of them." I assured him that our guns would frighten those we didn't kill, and I asked if he would stand by me. He replied, "I will die when you bid me die, master."
I gave him a dram of rum to steady his nerves and loaded our weapons. We prepared two fowling-pieces with heavy shot, four muskets with slugs and bullets, and my two pistols. I buckled on my great sword, and Friday took his hatchet. I then climbed the hill with my telescope and saw twenty-one savages, three prisoners, and three canoes. They were preparing for one of their barbaric feasts. I noticed they had landed near my creek, where a thick wood grew close to the shore. This gave me a tactical advantage, and I felt a surge of indignation. I told Friday I was resolved to kill them all.
We marched out, heavily armed. I ordered Friday to stay close behind me and remain silent until I gave the command. We took a long route through the woods to approach them without being seen. As we marched, I felt a sudden moral hesitation. I wondered what right I had to attack these people, who had done me no personal harm. Their customs were horrific, but was it my place to be their executioner? However, when Friday informed me that one of the prisoners was one of the "bearded men" from the boat, my horror returned.
I crept to a position about eighty yards from them. Nineteen of the savages were huddled together, and two had just been sent to butcher the Christian prisoner. They were stooping to untie his feet.
"Now, Friday," I whispered, "do exactly as I do."
We aimed our muskets. "Fire!" I commanded. Friday’s aim was excellent; he killed two and wounded three. On my side, I killed one and wounded two. The savages were in a state of absolute consternation; they had no idea where the attack was coming from. We quickly swapped our muskets for fowling-pieces and fired again. More fell, and the rest began to scream and run about like madmen.
"Follow me!" I cried, rushing out of the wood. We ran toward the prisoner on the beach. The two savages who had been about to kill him fled toward the sea and jumped into a canoe. I ordered Friday to fire at them, and he killed two more in the boat.
While Friday kept firing, I used my knife to cut the bonds of the poor victim. I asked him in Portuguese who he was. He replied in Latin, "Christianus," but he was too weak to stand. I gave him some rum and bread, and he told me he was Spanish. "Señor," I said in my broken Spanish, "we will talk later. If you have any strength, take this pistol and sword."
The moment he had the weapons, the Spaniard seemed to find a new surge of energy. He flew at the savages with the fury of a man possessed. Meanwhile, I reloaded the guns while Friday used his hatchet to finish off the wounded. A fierce battle broke out between the Spaniard and a powerful savage who tried to disarm him, but the Spaniard managed to draw his pistol and shoot the man dead just as I was running to assist him.
In the end, only four savages escaped in a canoe, and one of them was badly wounded. The rest lay dead on the shore. Friday wanted to pursue the survivors in a canoe, fearing they would return with reinforcements. I agreed, but when I jumped into one of the abandoned canoes, I was shocked to find another prisoner tied up at the bottom, nearly dead with fear.
I cut his bonds, but he could neither stand nor speak. When Friday came over to speak to him, the scene that followed would have moved anyone to tears. Friday began to kiss him, hug him, and jump about in a wild dance of joy. He cried, laughed, and sang like a man who had lost his mind. When he finally regained his composure, he told me the truth: "It is my father."
I cannot fully describe the affection Friday showed. He sat by his father, holding the old man’s head to his chest and rubbing his numbed limbs. I gave them some rum to help with the circulation. Because of this discovery, we abandoned the pursuit of the escaping canoe—which was fortunate, as a violent storm blew up that night, and it is unlikely the savages survived the crossing.
Friday was so devoted to his father that I didn't have the heart to call him away for some time. Eventually, he ran all the way back to our castle—sprinting faster than any man I have ever seen—to fetch fresh water and bread. The water revived his father more than anything else could. I also sent bread and water to the Spaniard, who was resting under a tree. He was so weak he couldn't stand, so I had Friday rub his swollen ankles with rum.
Friday was constantly looking back to make sure his father hadn't moved. When the time came to bring them home, Friday simply picked up the Spaniard and carried him to the boat on his back. He then paddled them both to our creek much faster than I could walk. Since neither of the rescued men could walk over my fortification, Friday and I built a comfortable tent for them outside the wall, using old sails and boughs. We made them beds of rice-straw and gave them blankets.
My island was now inhabited, and I felt like a king. The entire country was my property, and my subjects owed their lives to me. It was a diverse kingdom: Friday was a Protestant, his father a Pagan, and the Spaniard a Catholic. I allowed total liberty of conscience throughout my lands.
I ordered Friday to kill a young goat, and we prepared a delicious stew of meat and broth. I ate dinner with my new subjects in their tent, using Friday as my interpreter. The next day, Friday buried the remains of the savages and the horrific evidence of their feast, erasing all signs of the battle.
Later, I asked Friday’s father if the escaped savages would return. He believed they were so terrified that they would tell their people they had been attacked by thunder and lightning from the gods. He said they believed Friday and I were heavenly spirits sent to destroy them. As it turned out, he was right; the savages never dared to return to the "enchanted island." Although I remained on guard for some time, I felt far more secure now that I had a small army of four men at my command.