by Ferenc Máté
“We might.”
Dugger handed him the binoculars. “What would you choose: the squalls or the lagoon?”
“Guacamole.”
“What?”
“In that Mexican jail, they chopped up avocados and mixed it with onions and called it guacamole.”
“Are you crazy?”
“No; hungry. They say a condemned man feels an insatiable hunger just before he dies.”
“So which makes you less hungry, the squalls or the lagoon?”
Nello looked back and forth, calculating speed, time, distance, the direction of the wind, the change of course required in heading for the squalls and the loss of speed they’d suffer if they headed dead straight downwind. “If we keep going south they’ll know we’re trying for Rangiroa,” he said. “But if we sail into the squalls, they might think we’re headed for Tahiti.”
“So better the squalls. Right?”
Nello stared at the dark clouds and thought of the cascades of rain that might blind them, flatten the sails, and choke off the wind. But the smoke was closing in. What he wouldn’t give now for some guacamole. And a cold beer in his hand.
WITH HER SAILS GREAT SWOLLEN BILLOWS and her ropes and rigging strained, the ketch raced for an hour toward the wall of rain. The dark clouds sank, the blue sea dimmed, the horizon blurred, then vanished in the rain. Dugger tried to keep her surfing in the strong winds on the crest, but the ketch rolled, lost the wave, and slid back into the trough. They had turned fifty degrees northward; the gray smudge below the black smoke had changed course and followed.
They hurtled down a swell. The crest broke. The foam streamed by. The ketch staggered like a drunk and rushed down a wave threatening to bury her bow in the bottom of the trough, but Dugger turned her hard and she rolled and yawed and doggedly raised her head, and kept rolling rail to rail, shaking off the seas.
Kate ducked down. Swirling eddies swept by her on the decks. She turned her head and looked at Dugger in admiration. He tried smiling back. “It’ll be cool under the rain,” he said.
I wish Darina were here, Kate thought. It would be nice to have her murmur a Hail Mary.
The ketch sliced like a white knife across the dark blue sea. Nello went below. He loaded the pistols and rifles, wedged them tight into the bunks between the bedding and the hull, then, mumbling to himself, “What a waste of time,” lashed a box of ammunition to the companionway ladder near Kate’s feet. When he saw no one looking, he took a slug of rum.
Dugger steered. The frigate neared. He saw its shape; he could make out the cannon. Then the frigate vanished in a trough. Two miles, Dugger thought. No more than two miles.
The ketch climbed across the face of a heaving swell. It reached the crest and was broached by a blast of wind. Then he heard the boom of the cannon. Somewhere above, the shell whistled by. “Go below!” he yelled at Kate. “We have to tack. Hey, kid!”
He waved Lil’bit aft. She came with her hair tousled by the wind, her flat feet steady on the deck. The cannon roared again. A spout of water erupted a boat-length from the ketch. They staggered down a swell, the sails gushing water, and Lil’bit pushed her drenched hair from her eyes.
“Take the wheel,” Dugger snapped. “Hold this course.” When she did, he knelt down beside the compass and, looking through the misted air, took a last sight toward the blue-bottomed cloud of Rangiroa. “One-ninety,” Dugger yelled. “Remember, one-ninety.”
He felt cool air from the rain stroke his face, then bloated rain-drops exploded on his skin. Through the sheets of rain, he saw the last flame from the cannon. A shell whistled loudly, closing in. The sea beside the ketch foamed white and opened wide. Then the world disappeared. The air turned to water and buried the decks and sails in an avalanche of rain.
A GUST HIT HARD and the sails thundered tight. The sheets whipped loose, then sprung and rippled taut. They stood in the downpour, hanging on. “Go below!” he yelled at Lil’bit. “Take Kate. ..Tieher in abunk.. .Youtoo.”
The ketch flew with wild abandon against walls of falling water. Dugger couldn’t breathe. He steered with one hand and shrouded his nose and mouth with the other to keep out the spouts of slanting, pelting rain. He could see no bow, no mast, only the spokes of the wheel before him. A head burst out at him and he saw Nello’s eyes, with his arm across his face like some coquettish woman trying to hide a smile. Nello stuck his head below and yelled into the gloom, “You two all right?”
“Never better!” Kate yelled.
Dugger wiped the compass with his hand and for a second saw the card, but it was swinging too wildly for him to be sure of their heading. “I’m going to head south,” he yelled into Nello’s ear. “Let the French go west.”
Nello didn’t answer; he went to winch in the sails. The main came in. The ketch turned. The headsail began to luff. Nello hauled it tight.
“We’re headed dead for the atoll. Five miles, right? In a half hour we’ll be on the reef.”
Nello nodded in approval. He leaned across the bridge deck and stuck his head down the hatch. It was too dark to see the ship’s clock on the bulkhead. “Could one of you ladies please tell me the time?”
Kate staggered forward in the heaving cabin. She grabbed the salon table, then the rail of the settee, and glanced at the ship’s clock. “Twelve-eighteen,” she shouted. Nello yelled it to Dugger.
Dugger clutched the wheel and steered with all his strength. All last night and all today, every flicker of his brain had gone into escaping from the frigate, running full speed ahead, but now he had to slow, to think of the unseen reef up ahead. He was tired.
Numb and tired. He turned his face up and let it be blasted by the rain.
“See that they’re in the bunks with the leeboards fast,” he shouted.
Nello went below to secure the women.
SIX BELLS RANG; the half hour had long passed. Dugger had to force himself not to turn the wheel and head back north to the safety of open sea. With every slat of the sails he tensed, listening through the downpour for the sound of a wave crashing on the reef, but he only heard the rain drumming on deck, hissing on the sea, gurgling out the scuppers, and pinging on the bell. He murmured a simple prayer, asking God to look after Kate, to bring her through this safely. And all the while he listened. He listened so hard he missed the muffled thunder of the wave upon the reef.
Kate lay wedged against the hull, with the mildewed canvas leeboard hooked to the underdeck holding her in. Inches from her ear the rain drummed on the deck, and the rush of the sea was right beside her head. All she wanted was to sleep, then wake up on dry land with no water in sight. She pressed her face against the hull. The wood felt solid, comforting. Then she heard something new; loud. With her ear against the hull, it was as loud as thunder.
“Dugger!” she shouted. “Dugger!”
Lil’bit sat in the bow, leaning against the cabin, her head down, as if asleep, in the rain. She only raised her head when a familiar smell had come, something that reminded her of home, her shack, her small closed lagoon. Fish, she thought. Dead fish.
Dugger saw her lift her arm and wave frantically to starboard. He looked over but all he saw was a hazy light breaking through the rain, and he thought she was just happy that the rain was easing, the squall ending, and they would soon be out of it, safe and free. He waved back.
She charged toward him, yelling, but water gushed over her lips and all he could make out was, “Fish.”
Dugger stared in confusion.
“Turn!” Lil’bit pleaded. “I smell fish!”
Dugger, shocked, eased the pressure on the wheel and the bow swung and he had to fight to bring her back.
Lil’bit shivered. “I smell the reef!” she blurted. “You have to turn!”
The rain eased, the haze brightened, and dead ahead, a boat-length before the bow, rose a bright green swell. It curled and glowed translucent, its crest feathered by wind, then it toppled and erupted in a long string of white fountains, as it explo
ded into foam, crashing on the reef.
The next wave grabbed the ketch and hurled her ahead.
Chapter 58
Father Murphy sat barefoot by the sea in the drifting smoke of the smoldering bits of houses. The surf broke in long low curls along the shore, and people walked by in ragged clusters, carrying from the charred skeletons of their huts a dented pot, a length of singed rope, a shell, a half-carbonized pole, a handful of nails. Then they heaped them in small piles, each family its own heap, of the things they had once dreamed of and so proudly owned.
The children were gone. They had run off to the falls and now stood under the cascade, yelling, splashing, washing from their chests and faces tattoos they had painted with the soot.
Father Murphy looked out to sea and gripped the Bible lengthwise with both hands as if he meant to rip it right in half.
From the direction of the fort came the Finn with a burned ukulele in one hand and a tin cup full of rum in the other, and, without greeting, sat down by Father Murphy. He sipped. “Look at the bright side, Padre,” he said. “The French are gone, your flock is back, and we’re still alive to drink to our health.” And, lacking another cup, he tapped his against the Bible. “Prost,” he said, and drank. Then he passed the cup to Father Murphy, wiped his mouth, and plucked at the remaining strings of the ukulele.
“Finn,” Father Murphy began, as if dredging something with great effort from the depths. “Did you ever think of killing someone?”
“All the time,” the Finn said. “I’m doing so right now. Why?”
“I’ve been thinking since last night, and I can’t chase it from my mind, about that admiral, and the different ways I’d like to kill him. Not a very priest-like thing to do.”
“Look, Padre. Some people need killing. That admiral, for sure. Even the Virgin Mary would vote a yes on that.”
The children chanted something long in chorus.
“My job is to explain God’s purpose to people. If I can’t do that anymore . . .?”
The Finn emptied the mug, then at long last said, “I don’t know. Maybe you should retire. Or maybe God should retire. Or you could both retire and leave the world to them.” And he held his cup up toward the children. “And the Chinamen,” he added. “Remember the Chinamen.”
Where the stretch of curving sand touched the point, the Zuo brothers shuffled with woven bags in hand. They shoved their pirogue into the sea, and while the sun was still high and visibility in the depths still good, they paddled through the shoals to dive for black pearls.
THE KETCH REARED. The bow rose on the last wave before the reef. With a violent swing of his arm, Dugger turned the wheel. The crest began to break and shatter on the coral as the headsail shed water and filled tight with wind. The ketch turned. As the wave broke, the lead keel slammed the coral with a bone-jarring thud as if they had fallen from the sky. Pots clanged and the ship’s bell rang. Nello fell against a stanchion, Lil’bit flew across the bridge deck and lay crumpled at his feet, and Dugger was thrown with force against the wheel amid the muffled, endless grinding of the forefoot of the lead keel milling the coral reef.
A gust slammed the ketch and threw her on her side. The starboard deck was buried, the foot of the sails submerged. Nello dove into the water that churned where the deck had been and groped among the lines for the jib sheet. He found its cleat, tried pushing the loop off the horn, but the soaked line was too stiff, so he worked it with two hands, one hand pushing, the other clawing the loop. He was running out of air. As the rope softened, the loop opened wide. He left the line under the horn, eased it slowly out, and the ketch stood up and lifted him into air.
With the wind pushing the mainsail, the ketch twisted herself free and a spent wave pulled her from the reef and slid her seaward. The coral seethed under the portside rail, and to starboard yawned the blue depths of the sea.
When a boat-length from the reef, Dugger smiled with joy. Nello pulled Lil’bit to him and crushed her in his arms. Kate had unclipped the lee cloths and came up into the sun.
“We did it!” Dugger beamed. “We’re here. Through the squall! This is Rangiroa. Right?”
Lil’bit glanced at the curved line of motus, and the reef-bound shoals that stretched unbroken between them.
“Yes,” she said. “Rangiroa.”
“And the pass?”
She pulled out of Nello’s arms. “Not far,” she said, and made her way to the port shrouds and, with great apprehension, started counting motus.
DUGGER HELD KATE’S HAND as if a life’s-worth of foreboding had fallen from his shoulders. He smiled. “We lost them in the squalls.” Then he blew out a great sigh and let his shoulders slump. He was holding Kate close to him when he heard the whistle. “Never whistle on board,” he growled.
“I didn’t whistle,” Kate said.
He looked over at Nello, but Nello shook his head. The shell whistled overhead and slammed into the reef, spewing a fountain of splintered coral high into the air. Out of the gray mist of the squall behind them burst the frigate. With its black smoke and long cannon, it came directly at them, then it dipped behind a swell and vanished as if sunk.
Nello grabbed for the sheet and trimmed the jib. Dugger kept the ketch running along the reef. “Where’s the bloody pass?” he blurted.
Lil’bit stiffened at the harsh demand. “Soon,” she said, staring straight ahead.
She scrambled up the ratlines for a better look. She counted the motus she recognized, then stared helplessly when she came to one she didn’t. She looked behind them and began counting again.
“Come on,” Dugger pressed.
She shivered, finished counting, “Two more motus,” she said.
“You sure?”
She looked indignantly at him, then around at the huge swells, which, breaking on the reef, obliterated any coral heads she might have remembered. “Pretty sure,” she said.
“That’s great!” Dugger snapped.
“Come on, Cappy,” Nello said, looking aft where, behind the swell, the frigate’s bow now rose. Then he knelt down and cranked the winch, trimming the sail an inch.
With the sails full to bursting, the windward shrouds vibrating like violin strings, the ketch rode the waves along the foaming reef.
Lil’bit wrapped an arm around a shroud and the other across her chest to keep from shivering. Be calm, she told herself. Your uncle taught you to be calm. There is always something on a reef that will give the pass away. Just look. And if you’re unsure, turn back to the safety of the open sea. There is no shame in turning back and trying it again. No shame, she thought, just the frigate with the cannon. Count, she told herself. Count well.
A school of silvery big-eye jacks darted past the ketch, disappearing in the glitter of the sea ahead. Two dolphins followed. Lil’bit smiled. There, you see? she chided herself. The big-eyes are running for the pass, knowing the dolphins don’t like the lagoon. She recounted the motus with greater confidence. “Two motus!” she shouted.
Behind them the squall opened and a shaft of sunlight burned through the churning clouds, illuminating the cannon of the frigate. Lil’bit gazed at the small motu beside them with its wind-whipped palms and casuarinas on its shore. She waited until they passed, then she called out, “One motu.”
One motu, she told herself. I’m sure it’s one motu.
The squall cleared, but the wind stayed. Dugger glanced back and saw the men loading another shell.
“Can you see the pass yet?” he shouted.
“Yes,” she replied.
The last motu was passing quickly by. It hugged the inside of the reef, with a white-sand beach that rose knee-high before the sand flattened among the palms. They all watched it so closely, no one saw the coral head awash before the bow. It jutted harshly seaward under a rising swell and only when it poked through the green did Lil’bit cry out, “Head out to sea!” and frantically wave her arm.
Dugger panicked. He spun the wheel and the ketch went too far; they
jibed. The boom swung savagely to port and the sails whipped with it, slamming against Lil’bit, knocking her from the shrouds. She crawled to the ratlines and scrambled up again.
They were past the last motu.
She studied the reef beyond it, right below her now, for any curves or wear that waves pound out at the entrance of a pass, but
the swells ran so high and the waves crossed the reef so white that it was hard to see with any certainty below the surface. She waved for Dugger to stand off seaward and he at once obeyed.
They sailed at speed along the reef. Dugger looked back. The frigate showed again, rolling and wallowing in the confused seas. It seemed in no hurry, staying a hundred yards behind. Why don’t they fire? he thought. Why don’t they just blow us to bits and get it over with? The ketch sank into a trough; the frigate vanished again. Because they’re not stupid, that’s why, he thought. They’re saving their shells until there is less motion.
Lil’bit was staring directly down. She started to raise her arm but lowered it, then she slid down the ratlines and, with her head down, came aft.
“Well?” Dugger queried.
“That was it,” she said, and pointed at their stern quarter.
Dugger spun. “That was what?”
“The pass.”
Behind them the reef seethed white, but, just off the stern quarter, the water heaved unbroken right up to the bow, where the coral heads tore the seas apart again. The pass was no more than two boat-lengths wide.
“It’s too late to turn now!” Dugger hissed.
Lil’bit looked sadly at him. “I know. I couldn’t say to turn before,” she said. “The trough was too deep; the pass was too shallow.”
Dugger gripped the spokes and let his anger pass. “Now what?” he asked.
Lil’bit looked at Nello, then at the frigate still behind, and watched as a great swell loomed against the sky. Then, so softly Dugger barely heard, she said, “We can surf in.”
Nello’s face twitched. Dugger shut his eyes. She’s a child, he told himself. Don’t listen to a child. “If we turn around for another try, they’ll blow us to rat shit,” he said.