by Nobody, Joe
A society marked by multi-generational living, older adults were rarely shuffled to nursing homes and extended care facilities. Most often, children, parents and grandparents lived under the same roof. When the utility poles stopped delivering kilowatts, most of the residents simply shrugged and returned to the ways their elders had lived.
There had been no food riots in Sao Luis, at least not like the episodes in Rio that travelers had described. Widespread looting hadn’t been an issue either. In fact, the matriarch who served as their mayor at the time when Europe and North America disintegrated, still held the office.
A shortage of refined fuels was the main issue impacting Captain Cortez’s family business. The tanker trucks from the south had suddenly stopped their shipments, the cost steadily climbing for the first few months. After that, there wasn’t any diesel to be found at any price. Senhora , as well as the fishing fleet and all the other cargo vessels, had remained tied at the pier.
It was a pair of university students who had approached the mariner, offering a solution to his critical need. “Biodiesel,” they called it, claiming he could run his ship from the oil of pressed castor beans. They had been operating a small refinery at the school for a few years. They wanted to expand but needed materials that weren’t available in Sao Luis.
“Where can I find this equipment you need?” Cortez had asked.
“The United States,” had been the short answer. “There are refinery-quality valves, pipe, and fittings in Texas. Before all of America dropped off the grid, we had placed an order that was getting ready to be shipped. We believe it is at a place called Port Arthur.”
There had been a test of the university’s product, the captain burning through 500 liters of biodiesel on a short run out to sea after a group of the students had modified his vessel’s fuel injection system. While his funnel had smoked more than usual, Senhora burned the “bean juice” just fine. One of the kids with thick spectacles had even claimed that the old Perkins in the engine room would last longer with its new, healthier diet.
As he prepared to make the run to Texas, it occurred to Captain Cortez that he should operate his business as his family had always done – cargo in, cargo out. Americans were famous for their love of coffee, and the marketplace in Sao Luis was full of freshly harvested beans. He could make a profit from both legs of the voyage and at the same time, be a hero in his hometown.
Rumors abounded at the time, horrendous stories about how cannibalism was widespread in America and other countries as well. Criminals from the cartels were rumored to control the Mexican coast. Pirates were once again the scourge of the Caribbean waters.
While the captain didn’t believe every fisherman’s tale that was whispered in his ear, he did respect the fact that the world had changed, mostly for the negative. For that reason, he approached the local chief of police and asked if he could hire out a party of armed men to travel with him – just in case.
The top lawman was a bit of an entrepreneur himself, and before long, a deal was struck. After loading over ten tons of coffee via the winch on Senhora ’s deck, five armed men had come aboard carrying trunks full of ammunition and rifles that looked like they had come straight from a military armory. They were a stoic lot, all young and muscular. They called him only “Sir” and “Captain,” which was just fine with the ship’s master.
In addition to his armed escorts, the captain had access to the finest crew available. His choice for engineer was a given, as was his second in command. Both men had sailed with Cortez for years.
The deckhands, however, were all unemployed men hungry for work, and for such a dangerous mission, each one had been hand-selected.
Now, after successfully completing this same trip so many times, Captain Cortez realized what a miracle it was that he had survived that first expedition. Standing on the bridge with a pair of binoculars hanging from his neck, the passionate Catholic crossed himself in thanks to God as his mind revisited that now distant expedition.
They had docked at a ghost town, or at least ghost pier. No tugs had arrived to help him in, no voices responded to his many calls on the marine frequencies. If the vessel had been much larger, or if the wind had been stronger, he would have never managed the heavy concrete wharf without damaging the steel hull from bow to stern on the starboard side. Again, Cortez made the symbol of the cross on his chest.
The armed men of his crew had disembarked first, spreading out quickly to make contact with someone in authority at the port. They found no one, at least not at first.
The electricity didn’t seem to work in any of the buildings, and none of the street lights or signals were operational. They found the harbormaster’s offices in complete disarray, having been ransacked, piles of papers, files folders, and office equipment strewn everywhere. Even the cars in the parking lot had been looted, their gas tanks punctured with some sharp instrument to drain the fuel. They found several bodies decomposing behind a stack of pallets and an overturned forklift.
Even in Sao Luis, freight records were kept on a computer, and those devices had been smashed to bits, their fragments scattered on the floor with the rest of the office debris.
Cortez remembered the sinking feeling he had in his stomach when the early reports came in… the gnawing fear that he had made a major miscalculation. No customers were around to buy the cargo in his hold, the coffee having been purchased for resale with his own funds. Given the sprawling complex of storage lots and warehouses in the area, it was unlikely his crew would be able to find the students’ materials and parts. He didn’t have enough fuel to make the trip home. Not only was the whole journey a complete bust, but he and his men might be marooned here forever.
With no other choice, the sailors from Brazil began searching every nook and cranny of the extensive facility, hoping to find fourteen pallets of parts and three bundles of special pipe. It was like looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack. A tiny needle. A very large haystack.
On the fourth day, one of the military men rushed to the captain’s cabin, knocking in a frenzy. “A vehicle is speeding toward us. It has one man inside.”
Hurrying to the deck, Cortez spotted the first sign of civilization he’d seen since arriving in the USA. Just as had been reported, he spotted a lone individual navigating through the wreckage and debris, seemingly intent on making his way to a nearby pier.
From the elevation of Senhora ’s deck, several of the crew watched in fascination as the new arrival pulled to a stop at the waterfront. “That is what the Americans call a pickup truck,” the captain informed his men.
A single man exited the cab and pulled the sling of a nasty-looking weapon over his head. “That is what the Americans call an automatic shotgun,” one of the chief’s men stated.
The stranger scouted the immediate area, peering inside the closest building, around the corner, and behind a nearby dumpster. After verifying he was alone, he returned to the passenger door and removed a large vase or urn.
Through his binoculars, the captain watched as the local gently carried the container to the edge of the pier. There, he took a knee and seemed to be praying. After his words with God were finished, he picked up the vase, kissed the side of it, and then dumped a powdery substance into the water.
“He’s burying the ashes of a loved one… dumping them into the sea,” the captain announced. “He is a man of God. We should talk to him.”
“I will send a squad of my men,” announced the military commander. “I will order them to bring him back here.”
“No,” Cortez countered. “I will go, alone… unarmed. We don’t want a misunderstanding.”
Rushing down the gangplank, the captain moved with the legs of a much younger man as he strolled along the long concrete wharf. For a minute, he thought he wasn’t going to reach the stranger before he jumped back in his truck and sped away.
“Hello!’ he shouted, cupping his hands and projecting the greeting from the length of a soccer pitch. “H
ello!” he called again, waving his arms.
The stranger’s shotgun raised up in a flash, his eyes taking in Cortez and then scanning in a wide arch. Again, the captain thought the American was going to run.
“I am alone. I mean you know harm,” he yelled again.
“What do you want?” the local shouted back, and then, “That’s far enough, Mister. Don’t come any closer!”
Cortez did as instructed, halting his approach with his hands in the air. For the second time this journey, he thought he had made a mistake. The muzzle of the American’s weapon appeared huge as it pointed at his chest. The man’s eyes were cold, his posture aggressive.
“I am Captain Juan Cortez, master of the Senhora do Sao Luis ,” the sailor stated. Then, not knowing what else to say, he added, “Do you know anyone who would like to buy a shipment of coffee from Brazil?”
An hour later, Captain Cortez was escorting his new friend, Pete, into Senhora ’s wheelhouse.
He learned that Pete owned a bar in West Texas. The businessman had made the journey to Beaumont to rescue his sister after the collapse. He’d arrived too late; his sibling having already passed. “Her last wishes were to be buried in the Gulf of Mexico, and Port Arthur was as close as I could get,” the American had explained.
Feeling a kinship with such an honorable man, Captain Cortez had taken an immediate liking to Pete. After touring the Senhora , the ship’s master then explained his dilemma in detail, hoping his new friend might know where they could find 2800 liters of diesel fuel and a few pallets of machined parts.
Upon reading the documents provided by the students to show proof of ownership, Pete had offered to help Senhora ’s crew find the materials and pipe. “These numbers at the bottom of the bill of lading, they are a system… a code for where your property is stored. I think I can figure it out if we drive around and read the signs.”
Sure enough, early the next afternoon, the university’s pallets were found.
“I will buy your coffee,” Pete had offered, “but I can’t pay you right now. If you want to unload your cargo, we can hide it here. Then, I can make the arrangements for gold, silver, or whatever currency you require and have it waiting for you here in a few months. In fact, I would like to set up a trade partnership. If there are things you need in Brazil, maybe we can barter and help each other.”
An instant friendship formed between the two men, each realizing the other was a risk-taker and an entrepreneur, and both having faith in the future despite current circumstances. Not having many other options, Captain Cortez accepted Pete’s offer.
As Senhora passed the buoys marking the entrance to the Sabine Neches ship channel, the captain’s thoughts returned to the present, and he smiled. They were almost there, would easily dock before nightfall. Pete, as well as dozens of other customers, would arrive by the morning to buy, sell, barter, and trade. He had sugar cane, coffee, pepper, and several crates of other rare commodities aboard. His friend had spread the word, just as he’d promised, and Cortez would make sure Pete got the first look at his cargo.
On Senhora ’s starboard side, after she passed through the wide jetties, opened a shallow body of water that his charts labeled as Sabine Lake. Years ago, the American authorities had cut a deep channel along the western side, dredging to a depth of twelve meters so that even the largest vessels could access the Texas coast.
While his ship didn’t draw nearly that much water, the captain paid close attention to his course and speed. Without constant maintenance, shoaling could occur and losing a propeller or breaching the hull would end his voyages in short order, perhaps even causing loss of life. With a gentle touch, he slowed the engines to a pace of five knots.
While Senhora didn’t have all the modern navigational equipment of a newer vessel, the captain had installed a GPS-driven autopilot some years ago. Cortez didn’t completely trust the device, especially in such close proximity to shallow water and rock jetties, but it did allow him to reduce his overhead by one man. Every centavo counted.
He was less than a nautical mile into the lake when movement caught the captain’s eyes. There was another boat to his starboard side, the white rooster tail of water jetting from its wake, indicating a high rate of speed. As he raised his binoculars for a closer look, another moving object caught the captain’s eye. Another boat, trailing the first, came into view.
Bringing the approaching vessels into focus, Captain Cortez’s heart skipped a beat. Pirates! Both speeding boats were full of armed men! They were on an intercept course!
Pivoting quickly, the captain’s palm slammed down hard on a large red button mounted on the dash. Alarm klaxons began sounding throughout Senhora ’s decks, surprised sailors rushing through narrow passageways and jumping through watertight doors, all of them wondering, “What is wrong?”
When Cortez’s second in command burst onto the bridge, his first question was, “Where is the fire?”
“No fire,” the breathless master replied. “Prepare to repel boarders. We’ve got go-fast boats coming alongside. They are armed.”
Given Senhora ’s slow speed and predictable course, the two speedboats closed quickly on the freighter’s starboard side. As the Lady ’s crew scrambled to take up positions, her captain was concerned.
His total crew was comprised of only twelve men. A handful of weapons were stored on board, the dangers of sailing to the United States having been eliminated long ago. He’d never encountered armed swashbucklers in any of his previous voyages, and like most leaders, he was uncomfortable with packing a large cache of weapons aboard.
The pistols carried by Senhora were locked away in the captain’s quarters. As Cortez passed out that limited firepower, other members of his crew were busily unreeling the vessel’s powerful fire hoses. “We will defend this ship to the last man!”
As the lead boat pulled up alongside, a hail of automatic gunfire sent two sailors ducking for cover. A moment later, a thick rope equipped with a grappling hook pinged against the rail.
Realizing that the raiders were trying to access his ship from both the ladder welded to the outer hull plating and via the rope, Captain Cortez shouted to his men, “Cut that rope! Take an axe and chop the line!”
One brave crewman rushed forward, lifting a fire axe high above his head, preparing for a severing blow, but was gunned down from below. He was the first causality.
Now realizing they no longer held the advantage of surprise, the two attacking vessels separated. While the first boat remained alongside, the second moved seventy-five yards out where they had a good angle to reach the defenders above with gunfire.
Shocked by the speed and sophistication of the attack, several of the Brazilian mariners froze in awe, staring at the attackers before them, mouths open in surprise, unsure of how to react. After all, none of them had ever been threatened like this while on a seafaring journey. It was Cortez’s voice that interrupted their collective stupor.
“Knock them off the hull!” the captain screamed, pointing toward the 2-inch hose lying on the deck.
To add emphasis to his orders, Cortez poked his head over the rail and fired two shots from the large, black revolver in his hand.
The captain’s men responded, manhandling the hose at the edge of Senhora ’s deck. Opening the valve, a powerful jet of water erupted, fueled by a pump several decks below.
The stream collided with the lead pirate, striking the boarder in the head. A cheer rose up from the deckhands as the hapless trespasser lurched and flayed, struggling briefly to regain his balance before tumbling into the murky water below. A few moments later, a second attacker was knocked from the metal rungs, plunging headlong into the sea.
Another stream of bullets pinged and sparked against the ship’s steel bulkhead, sending the firemen scrambling for cover. A single crewman remained on the deck, small red circles staining his otherwise white shirt. The second officer returned fire, loosing three rounds from the pistol extended in his hands.
Now afraid to expose themselves to the superior firepower from below, Cortez’s men hesitated too long before aiming their water gun a second time. A head appeared from below, then a rifle. A long burst of fire slammed into the crew commanding the hose, knocking two more to the deck, both men thrashing in misery.
Rushing to the rail, Cortez shot the intruder, his carcass landing with a splash. A bullet, fired from the pirates’ boat, struck the captain in the shoulder before he could duck back to cover.
A crewman rushed to his skipper, offering to assist the grimacing naval commander. Waving him off, Cortez then realized he hadn’t seen the second boat during his brief glance over the gunwale.
Too late, the captain shouted commands to check the port side. Three of the assaulting bandits had already managed to board Senhora while the crew had been distracted fending off the first boat.
A steady stream of gunfire met the second officer as his men rushed to confront the aggressors. Another sailor slumped down, screaming in agony when high-velocity rounds tore into his torso.
As the trespassers moved toward the bridge, a brave man from the engineering spaces jumped one of the privateers from behind, nearly decapitating his victim with a wrench as long as a baseball bat.
The first officer shot another of the boarders before falling in the maelstrom of gunfire.
Now worried that his ship was lost, Cortez ordered his remaining men to retreat, waving them back toward Senhora ’s island.
Rising three stories above the main deck, the island contained a series of staircases, the officers’ quarters, and at the top, the bridge.
As his crew egressed to the metal superstructure, the remaining pirates proceeded with caution. They had taken far more causalities than anticipated, only five members of the boarding party left uninjured.