by James Gray
WHERE’S THAT INDIAN?
When our schooner finally reached the open sea, we hoisted sail, cut the engine and set a northwest course. I just couldn’t help gazing back over the stern at the dark outline of mountains etched on the southern horizon. Perhaps we would return one day to help. But first, we had to reach a safe haven where we could replenish our supplies — and our thoughts. We had come a long way since leaving the Island of Guanaja. The experience had been total, even though the Ciudad Blanca would remain lost for a while longer. My friends sitting around on deck were exhausted and empty. I was in the same state, but I had a boat to run and a destination to find.
According to the captain of the navy boat that had brought the Chief to Patuca, Guanaja had been hit the hardest. The hurricane had stalled there for days and stripped the island of all its vegetation. Food was scarce and there was almost no drinking water.
A British warship had anchored nearby and had begun to help out the survivors. Going there would be of no use to anybody, so we headed for Roatán. Eddy, the Chief and Cowboy George could catch a flight out as soon as the airport was back in business. I set a course for French Harbour, the same place where my troubles had started in the first place.
When the wind finally picked up, Numada heeled over a little and gained speed. I felt that old familiar movement under my feet again, but I had to navigate carefully because the sea was littered with countless floating objects in all directions: tree trunks, garbage, houses, dead animals, clothing, and anything else that had not been spared.
On we went, cutting through the floating debris. Occasionally, the dull thud of a submerged object would strike the hull and give the boat a jolt. It was hauntingly apocalyptic. We made slow headway under the low clouds. The constantly shifting wind of mid-afternoon made sailing difficult. A light rain began to fall and the wind dropped off completely. I cranked over the engine and left only one of the mainsails up just to ease the roll. I divided the crew into shifts and we took turns sleeping. I figured we’d arrive in about two days. There was a big swell running and all night we motored slowly along through the fields of drifting leftovers. Early the next morning, the sharp eyes of Cowboy George saw something that made us all question the real meaning of destiny. “Hey, Captain.” It was the first time he had ever called me “Captain.”
“What’s up?” I asked.
He pointed to a spot off the starboard bow. I could barely make out a florescent orange splash of color lying low in the water. It was a life raft, no doubt about it. I changed course and called Eddy and the Chief, letting an exhausted Valeska sleep. We wove through the thick debris until we came alongside. There was no sign of life until a man’s head slowly poked out of the front flap. He had a half beard and scraggly dark hair.
I took a good look and almost swallowed my gum. It was Ramón, Dog’s right-hand man. Chief threw him a line. At that moment, another scraggly head protruded from the canvas flap. I might have known.
“Well, what the hell took you so long?” It was none other than Dog Barker all right, the last person in the world I wanted to see. In retrospect, I should have left those two guys to rot on that raft, but I helped them on board.
“I lost everything,” was all the Dog could muster.
“Gee whiz, I’m so sorry.”
“What happened to you? We saw your boat in the mangroves with no one on it,” mumbled Barker.
“We were off in the jungle.”
“Filming Ciudad Blanca, I bet,” he said grudgingly. “So you were the guys who got the storm gods all riled up. I told you that Ciudad Blanca was cursed. You should have listened. Cause of you, we lost Ronnie and two other crewmembers. Remember Shirley? She disappeared too, poor thing. It was bad, Frenchman, really bad. And Valeska, I’ll be honest with you about her; she disappeared. I just can’t figure out what happened to her. Too bad, she was such a good—” Barker’s jaw dropped as Valeska came through the companionway and stepped out on deck.
Her eyes were on fire. “I didn’t know we were picking up garbage.” She went up to Dog and slapped him as hard as she could. After that, she turned to spit into Ramón’s face. “There are no words to describe this type of scum.”
I shared her sentiment. These were two of the most ruthless people I’d ever met, but now they seemed tamed, harmless. I guessed that the storm had done some good, after all. We gave them a shot of rum and some food. Then our two new passengers passed out on the foredeck.
“Are you crazy?” Valeska said to me in a low voice once we were alone in our cabin. “After all they have done, you treat them like poor refugees. They’re both heartless killers.”
“What do you want me to do? Throw them overboard?”
“Yes. Feed them to the sharks. That’s what they’d have done to you.”
“Once we get to Roatán, I’ll hand them over to the police and we’ll be gone.”
“The police? Sure. After that, they’ll slither off somewhere and that will be it. We should kill them right here and now.”
“I’m not killing anyone, Valeska.”
“Wake up, Jack Legris. The moment your back is turned, they’ll kill you, me and everybody else on board.”
It was late afternoon when we nearly ran into another surprise, literally. It was a snag, a pile of floating debris. We could make out the rooftop of a small wooden structure, an enormous tree, and part of a boat mast sticking out of the middle of the mess. The deckhouse had been half-destroyed, its roof ripped off. I went up to the foredeck and shook Dog. When he focused on the wreck, he yelled, “Jesus fucking Christ. It’s Esmeralda. I can’t believe it’s still floating!”
The boat was almost completely submerged, but a massive tree had somehow stayed lodged to the side of the hull and now it was the only thing that kept the yacht from going under. We approached the wreck with caution.
“Look!” the Dog exclaimed. “What luck! Some crates of artifacts are still lashed onto the deck.”
Hanging within the twisted structure of the davit, the yacht’s dinghy was attached only by a single frayed piece of line.
“We have to get those boxes of artifacts off before she goes down, or they’ll be lost forever, a total waste. I promise you, Frenchman, they’ll be all yours.”
I thought for a few seconds, looked at the guys, then over at Valeska. True, we were sufficient in number to quickly move everything on board Numada. It would be a shame to lose these inestimable treasures from the Ciudad Blanca. Chief squinted as he scrutinized the mound of debris.
“It’s going to be tricky to get in close, but I think we’ll be able to nudge up alongside if we’re careful. I’m just afraid something might get caught in the propeller.”
We brought her in gradually, through the swirl of floating junk. Eddy pushed away the larger obstacles with the long gaff until finally we were only about fifty feet from the pitiful-looking hull.
Then the Chief’s face lit up like a searchlight.
“Jacques, all things considered, we just have to open each crate, make a chain, and we can easily transfer the pieces one by one up on deck. It shouldn’t take long.”
“Brilliant, Chief, let’s go for it.”
I brought Numada alongside. The Chief and George slid overboard onto the submerged hull and looped two lines around the few twisted stanchions that remained bolted to the hull.
“Let Ramón and me help you. We know what’s in each box. It’ll go faster,” the Dog suggested.
I wondered about the sincerity of his offer, but it was too late to stop the operation, and, what’s more, the wind was starting to pick up. “Okay,” I conceded.
“Hey, what’s this?” said the Chief, prying open a damaged crate. “Look, there’s something else in here.”
He lifted up a plastic package, then poked a hole in it with his knife. A white powder spilled onto Esmeralda’s soggy deck. I scooped some up in my hand and tasted it. “It’s cocaine, Chief.”
“I’m not surprised,” he said.
&nbs
p; Barker piped up, “Okay, okay, you caught me. We had to include a little supplement of powder to pay for the extra expenses. The artifact export business isn’t what it used to be.”
“A little supplement? Yeah, right. You just can’t get enough, can you, Barker.”
“You can always become a partner, Frenchman.”
“No, man, this shit is going over the side.”
He winced.
The Chief and I opened every package we found and dumped it all overboard. There must have been at least fifty kilos. Barker and Ramón sat on the listing deck of Esmeralda and watched, the color draining from their faces. Their suppliers would not be happy.
We carefully began storing the artifacts on board Numada. Luckily, the transfer was over fairly quickly, and when it was, the guys returned to the safety of my schooner. All except for the Dog, who had ducked inside Esmeralda’s partly splintered deckhouse. I figured that the best thing to do was to keep them on the hulk until we were ready to go.
I guess that I wasn’t paying too much attention, passing the precious pieces one by one down through the big hatch that opened into the sail locker. Below, Valeska and Cowboy George were busy trying to fit each object in a place when it would fit. It wasn’t easy.
Then I heard Barker’s voice behind me.
“Don’t try anything stupid, or I’ll put another hole in your ass. Call that bitch downstairs and tell her to get topside, same thing for the Indian.”
I turned my head and looked at the Dog. In one hand, he held the small revolver that he had lent me back in Puerto Cortés. I had left it in the drawer under the chart table in Esmeralda’s wheelhouse just before we’d sailed the boat to Roatán and forgotten all about it. But he hadn’t.
“You won’t go far, Barker. You’ve only got two shots.”
“Don’t worry about that, Frenchman. Guess who’s going to get the first one. Call her up on deck.”
“Valeska, we’ve got a problem. Come out on deck.”
There was a short silence as Valeska’s head appeared through an open deck hatch. “It must be a joke!” she said, and climbed out.
“Yeah, the joke is on you, baby,” said Barker. “Now, where’s that Indian?”
“Eddy, you better call Cowboy George,” I said.
Eddy yelled down in French, “Hey, Cowboy George. Il y a un de nos visiteurs qui a un morceau dans sa main. Faites attention!” (One of our visitors is armed. Be careful.)
“What the fuck are you saying?”
Eddy turned to the Dog. “I told him to come up on deck. He only understands French or Indian.”
“Well, he better get up here and pronto,” said Barker.
“Why don’t you go down and get him yourself if you’re so brave?” Valeska glared at him.
“Shut the fuck up,” snarled the Dog.
“I’m going to make you a deal, Frenchman. We’re going to trade boats. Mine for yours, how do you like that? For some reason, I’m starting to like this rust bucket of yours more and more. So slow and easy, just get up, one by one, go to the stern and hop over to Esmeralda. Starting with you. Now go.”
I lowered myself onto the half-submerged deck of the big yacht, followed by the Chief, then Eddie, and finally, Valeska.
“Frenchman, what’s with the other guy?” the Dog shouted down to us.
“He’s inside, seasick,” said Eddy. Then Eddy whispered to me in French, “Tu peux être certain que Cowboy George a quelque chose dans sa manche.” (You can be sure that Cowboy’s got something up his sleeve.)
We watched helplessly as Ramón untied the line that tied Numada to the wreck of the Esmeralda. My cherished Numada slowly began to drift away.
Then I heard the Dog shout, “Hey, Indian, if you don’t come out now, we’ll go in and give you a one-way ticket to the happy hunting ground.”
There was still no sign of life from Cowboy George, so the two hijackers slipped inside the drifting schooner. The silence was interminable. And then the shouting started.
It was hard to figure out exactly what was happening because Numada was drifting downwind and we were already about one hundred feet away. Then we heard more shouts and cries of pain. Shortly afterwards, Barker appeared on deck followed by Ramón, their hands covering their eyes. Even from a distance, they appeared to be in trouble. Cowboy George emerged, wearing a dive mask. He yelled over to us, “Everything’s under control. I used the bear spray.” He turned to face the two in front of him.
The Dog snarled, “You fucking Indi—”
“Yes, you bet I am.” Cowboy George kicked Dog in the stomach. He went sprawling.
“Stop, I can’t see, I can’t see! It’s no fair! Ramón, do something!” screamed Barker.
“Yeah, Ramón, just do something, please,” said Cowboy George.
“Go to hell,” said Ramón.
“Shut your piehole, you little shit.” The Indian sent him flying with a kick to the head.
“I told you he wouldn’t take any trouble from these guys. No one messes with Cowboy George,” Eddy said with a grin.
Several maneuvers later, Cowboy George brought Numada alongside the sinking wreck of debris. “What do we do with them, Captain?” he asked when we were back on board.
I looked over at the floating leftovers that had nearly been our tomb.
“I think they need more time to meditate on the meaning of existence. Valeska, would you mind preparing a little survival bag for our guests? If they intend to make it to the Bay Islands alive, they can take the dinghy that’s still tied on deck. I figure it’ll take them two or three days, if all goes well.”
Cowboy George wrinkled his nose and pointed to Barker. “He must’ve shit his pants. Here, Captain,” he turned to me, “I took this little gun off the smelly bastard. Perhaps you’d like to test it?”
“No, not just yet.”
“Okay, you guys, now get up slowly and over you go.”
“May I, Captain?” asked Cowboy George.
“Sure, enjoy.”
He grabbed the two of them, and over the side they went, landing with a thud on the Esmeralda’s waterlogged deck.
Valeska came up into the cockpit with a small canvas bag.
“Here, let’s give the guys some provisions.” She threw the small grab bag at them.
“I hope you like canned spaghetti,” she said with a wide grin. “Too bad we can’t spare you a can opener. You’ll have to figure something out, but you’ll have lots of time.”
“Okay, let’s get the hell out of here.”
The Dog and his henchman looked more than a little dejected as they stood on the deck of the sinking hulk.
“Too bad that things turned out this way for you, Dog. Have a good trip to Roatán. It’s that way.” Valeska pointed to the horizon. “Maybe your suppliers will help you? Did they front you that coke or did you pay them in full?”
“Bitch!” growled Barker.
I put Numada into forward gear and we pulled away.
“So long, suckers.”
“Hey, you can’t do that. We’ll never make it,” cried the Dog.
“Sorry, but it was us or you. Fate chose you. Can’t play with destiny …”
“And what about my cargo, my artifacts?” the Dog whimpered.
“Finders keepers! It’s the law of the sea,” I replied, imitating his phony Texan accent. “They’re all mine, partner. All mine.”
Dog was raging. “You can’t do this to us, Frenchman. After all we’ve been through together. Valeska, help me.”
“No way, you had your chance, but I’ll never forget you.”
I couldn’t resist adding, “Yeah, neither will I. Remember that famous saying, ‘All is fair in love and war.’”
“Go to hell, Frenchman! When I catch up with you, I’ll make sure that your life won’t be worth a dime. I swear!”
I threw his Derringer over the side and it hit the water with a small splash.
“Come on, my gun!”
“Hey, Barker, you bett
er get that dingy of yours overboard and start rowing. Roatán is thirty miles that-a-way. And guess what, I hear there’s a storm on the way.”
When the wind finally picked up, it indeed came from out of the northeast and blew like hell. But Numada was safe and sound, anchored in one of the protected lagoons at Punta Sal. We waited there until the wind clocked around to the southeast. With all sails up, I set a course to Isla Mujeres, about three hundred miles to the north. That small Mexican island had been spared by the hurricane.
After our arrival, Cowboy George was the first to leave. He had another gig scheduled at the Community TV Center back home in Maliotenam. The Chief also had some work to take care of. A large diesel engine sat in the hold of a ship ready to be overhauled. It was a job that would keep him busy for at least a few months. Eddy was also itching to get back to the studio to start editing the film, so together, they took a direct flight from Cancun a few days later.
Soon after the guys left, Valeska and I read in USA Today that the Honduran Navy had rescued a young woman from the roof of a floating schoolhouse about thirty miles northwest of Barra Patuca. The article reported that, when the marines revived the poor girl, she remained in shock and kept talking about a yacht that went down on the coast of Mosquitia. They returned her to her family in Roatán and, according to the article, her chances of recovery were good. They never did find the remains of Esmeralda. As for the Dog and Ramón, it’s anybody’s guess.
Valeska and I lived for a few months on board Numada in the quiet lagoon just in front of Isla Mujeres. It was a perfect place to continue our project. Valeska used her connections and managed to sell the artifacts to the museum in Tegucigalpa. We donated the proceeds to the village of Barra Patuca to help to pay for the construction of a new school and clinic.
I spent most of my time writing a series of articles for Aventura. The new editor wanted everything I could write about our adventure. And there was also good news concerning the film. Because of my new popularity with the magazine, Eddy managed to sell it to TV1 in France. It was going to be broadcasted just after the release of the first articles in Aventura. But it wasn’t all good. I guess I had been too busy writing to notice that Valeska was getting restless.
