by Chris Tucker
Mercer was taken aback by the old timer’s excellent understanding of the language. “My name is Sean Mercer and this is Pat Vigil. May we sit down and join you?”
The man jovially replied back, “Of course you may, Mr. Mercer. I am Anthony Mendoza. Very nice to meet you.”
“Thank you. And please, call me Sean.” He sat down and just watched for a few moments as the children ran back and forth in the field kicking the ball around without a care in the world.
Anthony Mendoza was an older man. Judging by his looks, Mercer took him to be about sixty five. He had a scraggily gray beard that covered most of his wrinkly face and his nose looked like it had been broken in a fight from many years ago. His eyes were as black as a starless night sky, but still, there was a genuine likeability about the man. He felt instantly comfortable talking with him.
Mendoza asked, “Where are you from, Sean?”
“We’re based out of Seattle, Washington. It’s in the northwest corner of the United States. In the surrounding areas, it’s as green and forested as your home here; only it’s not as hot. But it is truly a beautiful place to live. We both grew up on the east coast, though, right outside of Boston.”
The old man listened with great curiosity. “Ah, I see. I have never been to the United States. When I was younger, my grandparents took me on a fishing trip to the Gulf of Mexico. That’s as far as I have been from here. Now, that was a beautiful place.”
Vigil intervened, “Well, I would have to agree with you there, sir. Sean and I have fished the Gulf many times and it really is a magnificent place.”
“What are you doing half a continent away from your own home, if I may ask?” Mendoza inquired.
“We’re conducting research on the river and investigating what’s causing all the pollution. Have you or your family encountered any problems from using the water?”
Mendoza thought for a moment. “I personally have suffered no ill side effects, but others haven’t been as fortunate. Around here, we mainly use the river to wash our clothes. No one uses it for drinking purposes, but even swimming in it can cause enough of a rash to make you think twice about getting back in.”
“What side effects are you talking about?” Vigil inquired.
“Well, it’s usually just a case of vomiting or diarrhea. Children and the elderly seem to suffer more long term effects, but no one has been able to figure out the cause yet.”
Mercer looked at the old man and said, “I give you my word, Mr. Mendoza. We will do everything in our power to help figure this out for you and your people.”
The old man humbly nodded his head at Mercer. “I am truly grateful for that, Sean. I must warn you, however, that finding the source of the pollution is not the main issue you need to concern yourself with.”
Vigil asked, “And what would the main issue be?”
Mendoza continued, “It’s the cartel in the area that won’t allow any investigating to go on. Local authorities have tried to uncover the source of the contamination, but have been unsuccessful. They are shut down before they can even get close to finding out what the problem is. While others, I dare say, are murdered for getting too close.”
“Murdered?” Mercer asked, baffled.
“Yes. The cartel is the only form of law that many know. We live in constant fear of them,” he said in a subdued tone.
Mercer could see the fear in the old man’s eyes. “I believe we ran into a few of them earlier. We came upon a gruesome discovery while out in the forest and witnessed firsthand what they’re capable of. If Pat or myself can be of any assistance to you or your people, please do not hesitate to call on us.”
The three men looked over at the children playing and sat in silence for about a minute before Mendoza broke the silence. “I was just about to head back to my place before you fine gentlemen sat down. Would you like to join me for a cup of coffee?”
Mercer and Vigil graciously accepted and followed the man back to his home.
It was a small wooden structure with three tattered steps that led up to a tiny porch area to the right of the front door. The building was only about eighteen feet long and went eleven feet to the back of the hut, and Mercer and Vigil were both astounded by the modest living accommodations.
There was a small bedroom to the left of the house. On the right, there was a small kitchen area and in the corner of the room was a cast iron stove that looked like a chiminea. To Mercer, the strange looking fireplace appeared to be from a different era. The bowl-shaped firebox had an opening on one side and a long, narrow chimney on top that extended to the roof. On top of the makeshift stove was where Mendoza heated up the water for the coffee. Vigil, curious about the fireplace, asked about the device.
As Mendoza put wood into the stove, he explained to the two men how the bowl shape provided the means for good air circulation within the firebox. The long chimney extended to the top of the room, where he had constructed a makeshift opening in the roof of the house to allow the smoke to vent out. The design of the fireplace resulted in heat being radiated out of the opening in one direction only, which made it ideal for warming up during cold nights.
As the water warmed up, Mercer browsed over a small collection of books on a shelf hanging from the wall. There were only seven books on the mantle, but he was intrigued by one in particular. Its binding was old and slightly decayed. He could discern the very faded lettering forming the words Port Log, and asked the gracious host if he could take it down to look at it.
Bringing over a cup of coffee, Mendoza responded, “Yes, but please be very careful. That book is over one hundred and fifty years old. It’s one of the last known remaining relics of what was once the original town of Tamarindo.”
“Original?” Mercer asked curiously. “What happened to the old town?”
The old man sat down in a beat up old rocking chair and took a sip of his coffee. As he started to tell his tale of the book and how he came into possession of it, Mercer and Vigil listened with much interest.
He began with the destruction of the town. “Tamarindo was an old gold mining town. It was a very busy port of destination for local ships carrying gold and other resources to the surrounding areas. The river was fed from Lake Managua and ran all the way to the Pacific Ocean. In eighteen fifty-seven, there was a large volcanic eruption and the town was destroyed. It was completely covered with rock and ash.”
“You mean Mount Momotombo?” Vigil asked.
“That is correct,” Mendoza replied. “It was her largest eruption in thousands of years. When she blew, the blast destroyed the entire surrounding region. The town of Tamarindo was directly in the path of the blast and was instantly decimated, covering any trace of the town and its people. The mudflows altered the flow of the river from the lake and the river was cut off entirely. Now, it only runs from just west of here to the Pacific.”
“And what of this old port log?” Mercer asked. “How did it come to be in your possession?”
Mendoza sat there, sipping his coffee and continued on with the story. “My great, great grandmother came upon it some time after the volcano erupted. There were very few remains of the town, and what was left of it was scattered throughout the forest in bits and pieces. As people scoured for any trace of what was left, they were met with the unfortunate realization that the tiny community was gone forever. They decided to rebuild a new town a few miles downstream to where it is now. My ancestors believed the town must live on and not be forgotten with all those souls that were lost there on that fateful day.”
“A very noble thing to do,” said Mercer.
“Take a look at the last entry in the journal,” Mendoza said eagerly.
Mercer turned the pages very carefully as not to damage them. He was surprised to see the book was in such good shape considering it was worn and battered. He scrolled through a few of the entries and found nothing overly exciting other than just routine entries of ships entering and departing port. He came to the last two entries in the
log as suggested by Mendoza and glanced at them with peculiar interest. It read:
12 September, 1857, 22:20 Hours
S.S. Alyssa Marie, a U.S. mail steamship, pulled into port this evening. Captain Thomas Mackie, Commanding Officer, has informed me the storm was too powerful for him to continue. He has made provisions for his ship and passengers to stay in port until storm subsides.
13 September, 1857, 16:30 Hours
Very large earthquake early this morning. Mt. Momotombo has been smoking with greater intensity throughout the day. Eruption seems imminent. Captain Mackie has offered us safe passage on his vessel. We will be departing within the hour.
After waiting a minute to ensure Mercer had read the entry, Mendoza offered, “Now do you see how valuable this book is? This could very well be the last known documentation of any event that took place in the town before the volcano erupted. There was also speculation that the ship might not have made it out in time since the harbor master was never seen or heard from again.”
Mercer was intrigued. “Very interesting, Mr. Mendoza. Very interesting indeed.”
The men talked for a little while longer before deciding it was time to head back. There was a stiff breeze in the air, but it provided little comfort from the sun’s rays glaring down on the Nicaraguan jungle. As Mercer and Vigil stepped out of the cramped living quarters, they exchanged pleasantries and thanked the old gentleman for his time and hospitality.
Mercer was intrigued by what he had read in the port log and was curious about what had happened to the U.S. mail steamship that was forced to dock in the town.
They took a few minutes to take in their surroundings and were about to head back when Vigil asked, “You up for a little hike to the lake?”
“Six miles is more than a little hike. I say we head back to town and get the truck. We can go to the lake from there. Besides, I want to make a call and do a little checking into this boat that may have disappeared.”
Vigil agreed, “Yea, a truck ride sounds better than walking in this heat anyway. What do you think happened to the ship?”
Mercer thought for a moment. “I don’t know. But whatever it was, the answer to that question might be lying out there, somewhere under a pile of rock and dirt and inside a ship that hasn’t been seen in over a hundred years.”
7
Dallas Marks was sitting in his study overlooking Eagle Harbor. From his vantage point, he could see the Seattle skyline on the other side of Puget Sound. His home on Bainbridge Island sat on the edge of the harbor and offered many spectacular views of the area. He had lived here for over five years now since he was assigned to his position as Head of Environmental Research for NESA.
His office was located in downtown Seattle on pier sixty six, but he opted to work from home most of the time, making an appearance at his actual workplace maybe once or twice a week. He had everything he needed here for work and didn’t see the need to get up and make the ferry trip every morning when he could just roll out of bed and work from the comfort of his own dwelling.
He would make the trip to the Emerald City when Hunt requested it, or if there was a mandatory meeting, but other than that, he had the blessings of his employer to take care of his workload wherever he saw fit to do so. He could access the computer mainframe from the office while in his own study, where he spent most of his day anyway, and he had never failed to deliver results up to this point.
He had just finished reading an email from his employer discussing the events that had taken place in Nicaragua, informing him that Mercer and Vigil would be staying behind to finish gathering samples, when his phone rang.
Dallas didn’t recognize the number on his caller ID, but decided to answer it anyway since it would most likely be work related at this time of day. He did, however, instantly identify the voice on the other end once he heard it.
Dallas replied cheerfully, “Sean, my friend. I was just reading an email from the Colonel about your findings. How are you?”
“I’m good, Dallas. Thank you. Pat and I are just wrapping up down here.”
Dallas had a concerned tone in his voice. “Is everything okay down there? I hope you guys aren’t in any danger.”
Mercer assured him, “We’re fine, old friend. Pat and I decided to stay behind and finish up. There was no sense in having anyone else here in case trouble started brewing. Besides, Pat’s a big boy. He can handle himself if need be.”
Dallas’ tone became more playful after being guaranteed by his friend that all was well. “Well, I have no doubts you can take care of yourselves, but Pat still owes me fifty dollars from the last time we played poker. It would be a shame to not be able to collect.”
They both shared a laugh before Dallas continued, “But in all seriousness, please take care of yourselves.”
“Will do,” Mercer said, still laughing. “And I’ll make sure he personally delivers that fifty bucks. I actually have another reason for calling. I stumbled upon something down here and I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind doing a little research for me.”
“Anything at all. Just name it.”
Over the next few minutes, Mercer described the port log and the name of the ship which may have been lost during the volcanic eruption. Dallas told him he would get right on it, and that he should have some information by the end of the day.
***
Mercer and Vigil arrived at Lake Managua in the early afternoon. They were in awe as they looked up at Mount Momotombo from the shore at such a short distance.
There were a few people wading in the shallow waters on the edge of the lake. Some children were splashing water at each other, while others just sat in the sand and patchy grass on the shore.
After talking to Mendoza for most of the morning, both men were eager to search for the original town of Tamarindo. Colonel Hunt had already sent a few members of the team to gather samples from the lake a few days earlier, so Mercer felt no need to collect any further data from the water at this spot.
Mendoza had told them exactly where the old town was built, but Mercer wanted to come in from the river entrance to try and pinpoint the flow of the blast and follow the wave of its destruction. After taking in the beauty of the lake, they got back in the NESA Jeep and headed inland. It was a fairly quick five mile trip, which took them to the site where the decimated town once stood.
Mercer and Vigil got out of the truck and started scouring the area for any signs that would lead them to the lost ship, if it had not in fact made it out of port.
“It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack,” Vigil commented.
“More like a needle in four haystacks,” Mercer quipped. “It’s been over a hundred and fifty years. Over a century of dirt and growing trees on top of the already lying ash and rock that initially covered the town. We may never find any trace of the town or any ship. Who knows if the ship was even still in port at the time the mountain blew? We could be searching for something that’s not even there. I think we should just wait until we hear back from Dallas and see what he finds. We at least know where to look now, but the sun’s going down and we may have a certain someone looking for us. Maybe being out in the dark jungle isn’t the best place to be caught with our pants down.”
His partner agreed and they headed back to the Jeep. It took them about half an hour to get back to town. They decided to rent a room at the local hotel rather than pitch the tent back at the makeshift base. Vigil had been talking about wanting to sleep on an actual mattress, and Mercer found it hard to argue with what seemed to be a valid point.
***
The wakeup call Mercer had asked for went off at seven fifteen the next morning. He sat up and looked over at his partner, who was still snoring and sound asleep. He threw a pillow at his friend, but Vigil didn’t even shift a thumb as the pillow hit him in the face. Finally deciding on going over to shake him out of his sleep, he woke his sleepy comrade and told him he had fifteen minutes to get ready.
Vigil quickly respo
nded, “Well, that gives me ten more minutes to sleep then.”
Mercer made another attempt to get his friend out of bed. He grabbed the glass of water sitting on the nightstand and splashed him with its contents. This time, Vigil sat up abruptly and shook off the night’s sleep.
“Well, no need to shower now,” he quipped. “Let’s go eat.” The two men were dressed and out the door ten minutes later.
After a quick breakfast, Vigil went to the local market to get food and water for the day, while Mercer decided to make a call.
“Good morning, Sean,” the voice on the other end of the line said.
“Good morning to you, Dallas. Were you able to find anything on the ship?”
Dallas answered, “A little. There was indeed a ship named the Alyssa Marie that went missing in September of eighteen fifty seven. She was a mail steamship that was en route from San Francisco to Panama City when she went missing. It was presumed the ship was lost at sea during a storm, but every search turned up nothing.”
Mercer interrupted, “Probably turned up nothing because it wasn’t lost at sea.”
Dallas interjected again, “So, you see where I’m going with this then, and I agree with you as you seem to have seen proof the ship did indeed dock at the port in Tamarindo. The harbor master would’ve taken the port log with him onto the ship once the Captain offered him safe passage from the area. It's a miracle it survived the devastation.”
Mercer took in what Dallas had just told him. “So, we can’t be sure, but it would seem the ship never made it out of the town. The odds are too great to think otherwise.”
“Are you ready for the kicker?” Dallas asked.
Curious, Mercer said, “If there‘s a kicker, I can’t wait to hear it.”
“There was a ship in San Francisco that unloaded a large shipment of gold onto another vessel. The initial ship was overloaded and the skipper of that vessel apparently made arrangements with the Captain of the Alyssa Marie in order to transport the excess weight for them. It was agreed upon, as they would be pulling into port only a few days later, and he took on the extra cargo.”