The Waterman: A Novel of the Chesapeake Bay

by Tim Junkin

  He retook the tiller and gunned the throttle, watching the dark water behind him. The white hull of the Vena Lee was now perhaps a hundred yards away, the outside range for a shotgun. Soon he heard shouting and cursing. At the bottom of a trough, he turned westerly, heading back toward the shore.

  The Vena Lee had stopped. He could hear more shouting, the sounds receding behind him. Her spot went on, and a man stood on her bow, partially blocking the light, apparently looking out for what was in the water. After a while her engine started up again. She was moving slowly, not sure where to find safe going. Clay was certain she wasn’t fouled. But he had regained the lead he needed to run for the shore.

  He asked Byron to get the chart and a flashlight. “Use the light against the stern on the floorboard.” He looked at Kate and then took her into the cabin. “Take the wheel and run us at two hundred ninety degrees.”

  She took the steering wheel as he showed her the heading on the fluorescent compass and how to keep to her course.

  Clay returned to the stern. On their knees behind the transom, Clay and Byron studied the chart together.

  “We’re crossing the mouth of the Piankatank, I figure,” Clay said. “I’m thinking about trying to cut the shoal off Windmill Point. We got to draw a foot less than that cannon. Maybe we can lose them there.”

  “Maybe. But that guy’s no fool with his boat. An’ that’s miles of shoal. You know these charts can be off. Course, maybe you can feel her through. I can drop the plumb. No help going by that, though.” He pointed at the chart. “Not for tryin’ what you got in mind.”

  Clay knew the truth in what Byron was saying. It was dangerous. But it might work. He wanted Kate safe. He wanted them all safe too much. “I know,” he answered. “I want to try it, though. I think we can lose them. If we don’t . . .” He paused. “I just don’t know these waters that well. I don’t know where there’s firm bottom to walk. And he’s sure to have people following onshore over here. Or trying to.” He raised his eyes to the eastern sky over the rail. “This doesn’t work, I’d like to sneak out and head for Tangier Sound. But we’d never make it without more of a lead. Still, if we could just get that far, if we could beat him across that broad stretch of Bay . . .”

  “What?”

  Clay had stopped.

  “What?”

  “Byron.”

  “Yes.”

  “One way or another I’ll need your help here.” Clay figured Byron sensed what was coming, since he didn’t answer. “We’re friends?”

  Byron turned the light off. “Well, you’re sure my friend. I wouldn’t blame you if I ain’t yours any longer.”

  “I need you to do something for me. No questions.”

  “What.”

  “I need your word on it.”

  “Clay. What?”

  “Your promise.”

  Byron got off his knees and sat back against the coaming.

  “If we don’t lose them crossing the bar—and like you said, that’s tricky enough—then I’m going to find someplace safe and put you and Kate out.”

  Byron tried to interrupt, but Clay stopped him with his hand.

  “No. No talk. If we can lose them or build a decent lead by trimming the point, we’ll turn northeast and cross over. Otherwise, I’ll have to drop you somewhere on this side. My hope is to cross, and head for Tangier Sound. Even if they tried to follow, from a distance, they might run out of fuel first. Or we might find help. A pleasure yacht or something. If we cut across and they’re still behind us, I’ll put you and Kate out over there. Closer to home. I’m thinking just off Wenona. Off the Deal Island shoal, in three feet of water or so. That’s what it’ll be when we get there. But it’s about a two-hundred-yard walk, or wade. But if we have to do it, there or over here—wherever—you get her ashore safe. That’s what I ask. That’s what I want from you. Then call Barker and the state marine. If we make Wenona, they’ll be close by. Hell, call the Coast Guard too. Get some reinforcements. I’ll be running north.”

  “Let me take the boat.”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “I know that area. Better than you. Better’n them. If we can make the marsh, I can outfigure ’em.” He paused again. “Maybe I can lose them. Or at least ground the boat where we can find it later. I thought it over. I’ve got the better chance. My mind’s solid on this.”

  “Why across the Bay? Why not above the Rappahannock? Or Potomac?”

  “I don’t know these waters, Byron. And who knows how many guys they might have following us onshore. I figure we’re taking ’em up the western shore now. If we cut across, any of Pickett’s men following won’t have time to get back down and over the bridge tunnel. That’s just a precaution, of course. They may have men on both sides.”

  Byron sat there looking at Clay. He didn’t say anything for a while. Then he put his head between his knees. “I’m really sorry,” he said.

  “Hey. They were after us, Buck. This was coming down. You called it. One way or another. Only one who didn’t know was me.”

  “The funny thing is, now I don’t feel so afraid.” Byron looked calmly at Clay. “Not at all. I’m ready to fight. Do whatever.” He shut his eyes. After a few moments, he said, “I never finished tellin’ you what happened. Over there. There was more.”

  “No. You didn’t.”

  Both of them tensed as the engine behind them fired up to high acceleration again. Clay raised his head up. Their pursuers were well behind. He saw that Kate was holding their course well and sat back down

  “I will. When this is over. I want to tell you.” Byron reached into his back pocket. He took out a pack of smokes and a pint of Calvert whiskey, mostly gone.

  Clay frowned, then shook his head.

  “They can see us anyway.” Byron turned the lighter in his hand. “What difference does it make?” Byron’s tone betrayed the answer. “Right.” He returned the lighter to his pocket and crumpled up the pack and threw it in a corner. “Funny how you always think there will be time—time to get things right with people, to tell them what you mean.” He squinted at the whiskey in the bottle, took off the top, and turned it upside down over the rail, then threw it into one of the empty wicker baskets.

  “We’ll have time, Byron.”

  Byron looked at the night sky, then smiled. “Shit. It’s only been six months. Fuckin’ excitin’ enough, ain’t it?”

  “Yeah, ain’t it.” Clay grabbed the gunnel and pulled himself up. “You know, if we cross the Bay, we’re gonna run right over our buried treasure. Our wreck.”

  Byron stood up as well and looked across the water. “She’s safe enough, I figure. Least till we can return. Better jacked. Then we’ll raise her. That will be a story there. Raisin’ buried treasure from the Bay.”

  “That, it will.”

  “We find that treasure, we’ll be fat.”

  Clay chuckled. “Yeah. Fat city.”

  “Okay. What’s the plan again?”

  “Yeah. The plan.”

  27

  Clay had moved back under the canopy top. “Okay. We’re running for the bar off Windmill Point,” he said to Byron. “We’ll test the depths. Try to lose them there, where the bar gets too shallow for them to follow.” He looked over the charcoal water. “We have to make this work. We have to lose them. Or at least put considerable distance between us. Then we’ll aim east, across toward Tangier and Crisfield. If they still try to follow, I’ll put you off and lead them up to Fishing Bay. If I can make the Hooper Strait, I might shake them there. They won’t know that water, there.”

  “Lotta ifs.”

  “If I can’t get that far, I’ll slide off and let the Miss Sarah run on. By then, the Coast Guard ought to be close. Long as you don’t forget to call ’em.”

  Byron snorted. “I’ll try to remember.”

  “Yeah. Well, let’s lose them right here,” Clay said. He set his face toward the shore. “For now try to find that flare gun in the cabin,” he
added. “I might need it later. And make me a gas cocktail. Use your empty whiskey bottle. I knew your drinking would come in handy. Rag at the top. You know. Siphon the gas. And give me your lighter.”

  Byron handed it to him. “Thought you were slidin’ off.”

  “I am. But just in case.”

  “No hero shit, Clay.”

  “No.”

  “For real.”

  “For real.”

  “Yeah.”

  Clay checked the heat of the straining engine with his hand. It was hot but running steady. He went to Kate and had her release the wheel and led her back to the tiller post and controls at midship.

  “How are we doing?” Kate asked. She leaned up against him.

  “You’ve done perfect,” he told her. “We’ve got some breathing room. Just keep an eye behind us. Anything changes, tell me quick.”

  “I’m scared,” she said.

  Clay held his hand out.

  She took his hand, looking back behind them. “Will your plan work?”

  “It should,” he answered. “Just keep a good watch.”

  Clay had been pointing the workboat toward the shore below Windmill Point, the northern spit jutting down off the Virginia coastline and marking the entrance to the wide mouth of the Rappahannock. The Vena Lee followed every change of course. Off Windmill Point, a mile-long shoal extended out toward the channel. The chart showed much of it at three feet. It was across this shallow water Clay hoped he could skim the Miss Sarah, but the closer he got, the more worried he was about the accuracy of the depths on the chart. And, he realized, Pickett might know the shoal better than he did. And Pickett had a working depth finder.

  The lights from the distant shoreline appeared as a maze of indecipherable sparks on the edge of the wide, watery black plain. Clay tried to read them to know where he was. The boat was now running crosswise to the waves, which rolled the bateau for a while, though the rollers diminished as they got closer to shore. The wind stayed calm. Studying the shoreline and channel markers and then the chart, Clay realized he couldn’t pinpoint his position as closely as he had expected. If the Miss Sarah hit bottom first, they would be caught. He asked Byron to begin the depth soundings with the plumb line. At the place where he thought he was, judging from the blinking buoys around them and his course and speed, the chart read five feet. Byron got four from his plumb. He took other soundings. They were all different from the ones on the chart. Clay knew his position. Not with total precision, but close enough. The chart was off. The bottom was too uncertain. The water was too shallow already, and they weren’t yet on the shoal. To continue was to move forward blindly. He decided he couldn’t risk it. But they were already far up, no longer in a position to cut across deep water in a northeast course. There was no choice but to turn back out, more easterly, toward Tangier Island. Since Clay had sacrificed his pots, Pickett had narrowed the distance between them. And he’d make up more of the gap with this turn. Clay knew if he ran straight for Tangier Island without any advantage he’d be caught. He swerved the Miss Sarah back out. With the change in course, Byron came up to stand next to him. He checked the shoreline and the chart and timed out loud the four-second green off their port side, knowing what was going on. He lay the chart down, saying nothing. He went and retrieved the flare gun from the cabin. Then he started making the gasoline bomb with the empty whiskey bottle.

  Heading east, back into the Bay, Pickett closer now, Clay studied the southern horizon, peering into the darkness, focusing on each light that shone across the wide expanse. He asked Byron to get the binoculars from the cabin locker. Through the lenses he could see little against the Bay’s huge darkness. But he could see the timed reds and greens blinking on the channel buoys, as well as the running lights of other ships or boats. And the lights dotting the shoreline—he should have used these earlier, he thought. He watched, and waited, and watched. He was in dire trouble. The chase was closing as the Miss Sarah pounded out her rhythm, out toward the open Bay. He considered turning back, toward shore, and running the Miss Sarah right onto the shoal, and taking his chances with Byron and Kate swimming or wading. But Pickett might intercept him first. And with his depth finder, Pickett might get close enough on the uneven shoal to pick them off.

  Then he thought he saw what he needed. An unusual configuration of running lights was way to the southeast, moving north. He concentrated on the movement of the lights for a while, watching through the binoculars. Then he adjusted course, slightly more to the north, handing the binoculars to Byron. Anxiously he glanced back at the boat behind them.

  “They’re going to catch us, aren’t they?” Kate whispered.

  Byron found what Clay had been studying.

  “What is it?” Kate asked.

  Byron handed her the binoculars and frowned. “Timin’ that’d be right touchy.”

  “It’s a big tug,” Clay answered. “Pulling a barge up north. It’s moving fast. It must be an oceangoing tug and the barge must be empty.”

  “Oh,” she said. “They could help us?”

  Byron put his hand on her shoulder. “Those tugs won’t stop for nobody. Can’t. Those barges don’t have breaks.”

  “What, then?”

  “You really thinkin’ what I think you are?” Byron whispered.

  “It’s already happening in my mind.”

  “Can we intercept it in time?”

  “If I judge it right. Dangerous, though.”

  Byron chewed his lip. “Well, this ain’t exactly a safety zone we’re in now.”

  “Please tell me,” Kate asked again.

  “It’s a tugboat,” Byron said. “With a long cable towing a barge or scow behind it.”

  “Yes?”

  Then Clay spoke: “Byron, keep your eye on the tug. Kate, keep your eye on that boat behind us. Call out its every move. That tug you see is moving fast. Eight or nine knots, I’d say. The cable’s a quarter mile long, maybe more. Tug needs that distance for the barge to slow down and stop. And to separate the barge from the tug’s wake and backward propeller wash. Anyway, I aim to keep Pickett behind me and to cut in front of that tug. Close. Real close. Too close for Pickett to make it. If it works, he’ll have to run alongside the tug and cable, or turn back behind it. We won’t lose him, but we’ll put more space between us. Probably double our lead. Give us what we need to round Tangier light. I can pick up more distance there, as well as off Smith Island. I know those shallows.”

  Kate nodded, taking in what he was saying. “Will it work?”

  “Might work.”

  “The man’s in his zone,” Byron muttered under his breath. “It’ll work.”

  Clay stayed on the tiller, keeping track of the steady progress of the tug and the water and waves. He felt the wind and tide, and sensed the distance, and gauged with his deeper instinct the time and point of conjunction, and pushed forward, angling, adjusting course with imperceptible pressures of his hand, moving north now more than east. He had less than thirty minutes, he believed, before Pickett would have him in range. Less than thirty minutes to intersect and cross in front of the tug, which would crush the Miss Sarah into pieces if he came too close. He pushed on.

  Byron watched the tug with the binoculars, reporting her progress in a steady stream of talk. They rode the waves, and time seemed to pass quickly. They could see the Tangier light directly off their bow, though it was still far away. The moon moved with them overhead. But Clay’s attention remained on the tug, its lights becoming brighter as it drew closer, its turbine now clanging eerily in the distance, mixing with the other sounds of the night. It would keep to the center of the deep channel, he was sure, and he knew where the channel veered. He plotted the tug’s course in his mind and marked the place where he would meet it. Kate reported periodically that Pickett was gaining but remained directly astern. Clay knew that Pickett was gaining, but he also knew that Pickett had no way to stop this from working. If he could time it right. That was what mattered.

&
nbsp; He ran northeasterly until the lights of the tugboat were bright and the outline of its smokestacks rose against the sky to starboard. He came abreast of it and knew its wake would be huge if the Vena Lee got behind it. The barge had running lights that showed its presence, seemingly so far behind the tug that pulled it. They looked like Christmas lights moving on the water. A novice would never know the cable was there, in the dark, low on the water, until it was too late. But that was too much to hope for with Pickett.

  Byron and Kate sat mesmerized as Clay took them closer to the path of the oncoming tugboat, the giant powerhouse looming just off their starboard bow, its engine’s roar now blotting out all other sounds, churning on a collision course with them, the black-bladed hull cutting like a monstrous chisel through the inky water, sending out a seething white wake of spume and spray. Clay ran with his lights off, doing nothing to cause the tug to change course. But behind them, realizing Clay’s maneuver, Pickett was flashing the spotlight, running with his lights on, and sounding his horn—which was all but drowned out by the boom of the approaching turbine—hoping to cause the tug to fall off and give him a chance to get across its path as well. But the tug never flinched, moving inexorably forward as they watched, and Clay took the Miss Sarah across its path not three boat lengths from its iron-girded bow. It rose above them sharp like an ax blade and bore down on them without pause or mercy. Clay prayed that his bateau would hold steady, and she did and was in and across the tug’s path and running past while he angled easterly to escape its wake. The tugboat sliced by and just behind them close enough to almost touch, and its wake hit the stern like a wave rolling in off a reef, lifting the bateau high and sending her bow crashing down and then up, then sending water cascading over the stern rail and onto her floor. Clay steadied her while Byron vented a whoop of relief, nearly drowned out by the turbine, and Kate clung to Clay as he watched the Vena Lee bouncing in the wake on the other side of the cable, unable, at least for the moment, to follow them.