by Homer Hickam
The other man had red hair and a cigarette at the corner of his mouth. “We got to save him,” he said.
“No, we don’t got to save him, nor nobody else,” the brown-faced man replied.
“Is that a crocodile holding him up?”
“He’s an alligator,” Homer said, his teeth chattering. Then, not wishing to be impertinent, he added, “But I can see how you might make such a mistake.”
Eventually, the redheaded man lowered his hand and Homer grasped it while holding Albert with all his remaining strength, to be pulled aboard. “Thank you,” Homer said, rolling over on his back and gasping for air. “You are the answer to my prayers. Who has saved me?”
“Roy-Boy’s his name,” the redheaded man said. “We ain’t never been the answer to nobody’s prayers,”
“Merganser’s his,” the brown-faced man said, “and he’s right, we ain’t. So who you be, boy?”
“My name’s Homer,” Homer said, “and this is Albert.”
“What the hell you doin’ out here with this reptile?” Roy-Boy asked. “You ain’t with the Coast Guard, are ya?”
“Fell off a fishing boat. Well, I didn’t exactly fall. Albert somehow got into the water and—”
“If this ain’t a queer mess,” Merganser interrupted. “Who’da thunk we’d end up with stowaways!”
“Technically, we’re rescues,” Homer advised.
Roy-Boy made a dismissive gesture. “Look, get in our way, it’s back into the drink with the both of you.”
“Just think of us as not here,” Homer said.
Merganser wasn’t convinced. “What if he tells on us?” he demanded. “Maybe we shouldn’t have told him our names.”
“You told him mine,” Roy-Boy accused. “That’s why I told him yours.” Roy-Boy swept his eyes across the empty ocean. “But who’s he gonna tell, anyways?”
“I don’t mean now. Later.”
“I swear I won’t tell anybody anything,” Homer swore. “Albert and I don’t care what you do as long as you give us a ride back to the beach. I’m staying—well, my wife and I are—at Captain Oscar’s in Murrell’s Inlet. You heard of it?”
“Yeah, I heard of it,” Roy-Boy said. “So you fell off the Dorothy, did you?”
“Yes, sir. The Dorothy she was.”
Merganser shook his head. “Captain Bob gets wind of this, he’ll turn us in, sure. I say we throw this fellow and his crocodile back into the ocean.”
“Albert’s an alligator,” Homer reminded Merganser and then reflected it probably wasn’t good to correct a fellow who could throw you in the ocean to drown.
Roy-Boy was thinking it over. “Naw, we can’t do that,” he said at last.
“Thank you,” Homer said, relieved. “Albert thanks you, too,” he added.
Homer crawled down with Albert onto a pile of woolen blankets. They were wet but Homer didn’t complain. After a while, Merganser asked, “You want some water? Got some in this bottle if you do.”
Homer gratefully took the offered bottle, which was an old whiskey bottle, and gulped its contents down. The water was warm and a little slimy but it wet his dry mouth. He shared the remnant left with Albert, who, refreshed, slithered out of Homer’s grasp and made a run for Roy-Boy’s feet. Roy-Boy raised an oar. “Another step closer, I’ll bash ye, ye damned croc!”
Albert stopped and cocked his head, considered the raised heavy oar, then retreated back to the wet blankets. Homer wrapped a protective arm around Albert and together the two remained quiet until it got dark.
The stars came out, millions of them, all bright and sparkly, and then Merganser turned off the motor and they began to drift. Summoning up his courage, Homer asked, “Are we anywhere near Murrell’s Inlet?”
“Shut up!” Merganser hissed. “No, we ain’t. You say another word, one single little word, it don’t matter what it is, I’ll pitch you and your croc into the sea. We clear?”
“Clear,” Homer said before realizing he wasn’t supposed to say another word, one single little word, but Merganser apparently wasn’t the literal type and Homer and Albert were left alone, although damp, in the bottom of the boat.
Above, Homer could see a crescent moon with purple clouds scudding past. The sea slapped gently against the hull. Then a lantern popped into view and something huge began to draw next to them. It appeared to be a wooden wall topped by three giant trees.
“Hello, the Theodosia,” Merganser quietly called out.
A face appeared next to a lantern. “You ready?”
“You might want to send somebody down to help us,” Merganser answered. “Make it go quicker.”
“Right.” In a trice, a cargo net fell down the side followed by a black man in dungarees and a canvas jacket. When Albert hissed and the fellow caught sight of him, he screamed, “Crocodile!” and clambered back up, fast as his bare feet could carry him.
“He’s an alligator,” Homer said, then wished he’d remained quiet because Roy-Boy gave him a kick in his ribs.
“It’s just a little croc,” Merganser said. “Come on back. It won’t hurt you.”
The man crept back down the side of the wooden wall, his eyes as round and bright as bone china saucers. “Keep that thing away from me,” he said before being distracted by a creaking noise from above. Homer saw a sling being lowered from a steel boom.
“Hold the burlocks steady,” the black man ordered Roy-Boy as he grasped the netting of the sling. Together, they eased it down into the boat, where it fell away to reveal a number of wrapped burlap bundles.
“Hurry!” someone called from above. “Scuttlebutt is there’s a cutter out here somewhere.”
The black man was counting. “Shit!” he moaned.
“What’s wrong?” Roy-Boy asked, nervously.
“You got thirteen burlocks.”
“Fletcher!” the voice from above called out. “If you got them unloaded, get back up here!”
“They’s got thirteen burlocks, Mr. Marsh,” the black man replied. “That’s bad ju-ju.”
“Get your tail back up here, Fletcher.”
The black man reluctantly complied and climbed the netting onto the ship. When the man at the lantern looked down, Homer saw he had a square face and a large mouth, creased at the corners with laugh lines. “That completes our business for this evening, gents. Take those burlocks—don’t look to see what’s in them, you hear?—and carry them directly to Crab Pinch Inlet. There’ll be a truck there waiting for you. Get going. We’ve got our steam up already and I’ve given orders to rig the sails to push us along even faster.”
The wall of wood pulled away. Merganser started the lighter’s small motor and steered them about.
“We did it!” Roy-Boy exulted.
“Not yet. You heard that smuggler. There’s a patrol boat out here somewhere. We’ll get by her, though. If they see us, they’ll just think we’re a couple of drunk locals.”
“Yuh, and a half-drowned fisherman and his crocodile.”
“Alligator,” Homer said and then, because he was so tired, allowed curiosity to overcome his good sense. “What’s in those thirteen bundles?”
“Never say thirteen on a boat!” Merganser admonished. “It’s bad luck.”
Homer refrained from pointing out that he hadn’t been the first one to say thirteen on the boat. The black man named Fletcher had that honor.
“And don’t ask what’s in them because we don’t know. We’re just hired to bring in the goods.”
The boat puttered along but they hadn’t gone more than a half a mile before a spotlight struck the boat. “Heave to!” a harsh voice commanded, apparently amplified through a megaphone. “We are prepared to shoot if you don’t.”
At first, Merganser and Roy-Boy threw up their hands to shield themselves from the blinding glare but then Merganser yelled, “Hang on!” and threw the boat over in a hard turn.
“We ain’t kiddin’!” the voice yelled.
“Ho ho!” Merganser laughed. “Yo
u got to catch us first!”
Merganser’s challenge was apparently accepted because, within seconds, a storm of crashes battered the boat and boards splintered, their remnants falling on Homer, who quickly shielded Albert with his body. The pounding continued—by bullets, Homer realized—until Homer heard the sound of two large splashes. When he looked up, he saw that Roy-Boy and Merganser were gone. The gun or guns had stopped, the reason for that soon evident when water rushed inside the boat and it sank. Homer found himself once again in the sea, this time without Albert, who had slipped from his grasp. Elsie will kill me if I lose her alligator, he thought.
But then he realized she wouldn’t have to kill him. For one thing, he was drowning. For another, he was about to be run over. A luminescent wave rushed at him, parting from the sharp bow of a big steel ship aimed precisely in his direction.
31
WHEN THE DOROTHY RETURNED TO PORT THAT EVENING, its hold was filled with fish but its deck contained a sheepish captain and mate who had to confess to Elsie that they had, while making their fine catch, lost both her husband and her alligator. Hearing this, Elsie’s first reaction was abject misery and she swayed toward hysteria. But upon reflection, and the fierce stoicism of the coalfields still embedded in her soul, she drew back from the cusp of wails and tears and gnashing of teeth that she teetered about. She reminded herself that Captain Bob hadn’t told her that her husband and alligator were drowned, only that they were last seen swimming in the ocean. Alligators, according to what Elsie knew about them, were supposed to be pretty good swimmers. She wasn’t certain about Homer but most Gary hollow boys knew how to at least dog-paddle. So there was hope for both.
There was also a load of customers inside the boardinghouse, sailors off a big trawler down from the Outer Banks, and they needed tending to. Elsie made her decision. She owed it to Captain Oscar to do her job. She’d see to her customers, then decide what next to do. She warned Captain Bob, “We are not done here.”
“I did all I could, Elsie. The sea is unforgiving.”
“So am I.”
Holding herself together with iron will, Elsie went back inside and worked with Rose to get out the big supper to the starving men of the sea.
After the sailors were sated and all had left the table, she carried a tray of food to Grace, noting, “You never eat what I bring but I thought I’d try one more time.”
“I eat all I need,” Grace said. “And you need not bring more. You see, I steal down to the kitchen at night and take what I wish for sustenance. Now, what is this about your husband lost at sea?”
Elsie burst into tears, the dam in her heart breached by Grace’s words. “And my alligator,” she said. “Oh, Grace, what shall I do?”
Grace leaned forward. “Well, Elsie, what do you think you should do?”
Elsie wiped her eyes. “I don’t know.”
“Think, Elsie. Your husband is lost at sea. . . .”
“And my alligator.”
“Yes, your alligator. What should you do?”
Elsie thought it over. “I should find them,” she said at length.
“At sea? How would you do that?”
There was only one way and Elsie knew it. “Thank you, Grace,” she said and stepped downstairs and outside onto the porch, where Captain Bob and Marley were holding court with the trawler sailors, all of them relaxing and smoking and digesting their large meal. “I need your boat,” Elsie told Captain Bob.
“Whatever are you talking about, Elsie?” Captain Bob asked, taking his corncob pipe from his mouth.
“I need your boat. To look for Homer and Albert.”
Captain Bob pondered Elsie’s demand, then said, most condescendingly, “There are two things wrong with this idea. Firstly, you don’t know anything about boats. Secondly, it’s become night and the sea is a dangerous place after dark.”
“I don’t care,” Elsie said. “Just get me started, aim me in the right direction, and I’ll take it from there. I have always wanted to be a sailor.”
Captain Bob leaned back and smiled, then rose from the rocking chair, nodded to the trawler boys, and led Elsie over to Albert’s empty pen beneath the willow tree, where they might not be clearly heard. “Now, see here, Elsie,” he said, pointing the stem of his pipe at her, “they’re lost, your husband and alligator, and there’s nothing to be done about it. You must accept that you’re a widow, the sea being the harsh mistress that she is, and commence with your grieving and then get on with your life. Give it a few days, even a week, and then I’ll come a-courting. You can stay here forever, which I know is what you want. It’s kismet. Do you know what kismet means?”
“I certainly do,” Elsie answered. “Wait here.” She marched across the front yard, up the porch steps, across the porch, and through the screen door, which slapped loudly behind her, startling the somnolent sailors. She kept going until she reached her room, where she opened a small trunk, provided by Captain Oscar to hold her things, and removed the snub-nosed pistol she’d stolen from Denver the thunder road driver, which seemed months, perhaps years ago. She made certain it was loaded, descended the staircase, and marched out onto the porch, the screen door slapping shut anew behind her, which startled the dozing sailors once again, and continued down the steps and into the sand and across to Albert’s pen, where she soon had the barrel of the pistol tucked up under Captain Bob’s chin. “You will take me to sea and you will find my husband and my alligator toot sweet, Captain Bob, or I swear I will blow off your head.”
Captain Bob spat out his pipe. “Well,” he said in an aggrieved tone, “since you put it that way, I suppose I will.”
32
A LIGHT FLASHED INTO HOMER’S FACE, NEARLY BLINDING him, and then, as the sharp bow turned aside, a giant hand seemed to claw up out of the deep and pull him under until he felt something slip beneath him, then lift him to the surface. Once his head popped above the water, Homer could see that Albert had saved him once again. He hung on to the alligator and started yelling for help.
The boat that had nearly run him down circled about, then edged in alongside. Muscled arms reached for Homer from above and grasped his shirt, then his belt, and pulled him from the sea. Somehow, he hung on to Albert.
Dumped on the deck, Homer rolled over and gulped air while seawater ran off him. When he opened his eyes, it was to see the face of a rough-looking man wearing a seafarer’s cap. Other faces also appeared. They were all rough-looking men. “Thank you,” Homer managed to say in a strangled voice.
Albert looked around with interest and hissed when one of the men tried to grab him by his tail. “Don’t do that,” Homer said as he sat up.
A boy with a tub hat shoved on the back of his head pushed through the other men and stared at Homer and Albert. “You’re lucky to be alive,” the boy said.
“Where am I?” Homer asked him.
“Why, the cutter Helene,” the boy said. “Of the United States Coast Guard.”
“Coast Guard! You were looking for me?”
“Why, no, sir. We’re on smuggling patrol. Just happened acrost you.”
“What kind of smuggling?”
“Gold, silver, jewels, just about anything they ship up here from old Mexico. Uh-oh. Here comes Chief Vintner.”
Chief Vintner was the rough-looking man Homer had first seen. He shoved into Homer’s view, then kicked the boy in the buttocks. “Move it, Doogie! Help throw that crocodile or whatever the hell it is overboard!”
“He’s an alligator,” Homer said, “and please leave him alone. He belongs to my wife. His name is Albert.”
Vintner turned on Homer. “Who are you, smuggler man?”
“I’m no smuggler. My name is Homer Hickam. I’m a coal miner except I’ve been working on the fishing boat Dorothy Howard. My alligator jumped off and I jumped with him. Then I was picked up by that boat you sank.”
Vintner’s face darkened and he raised his hand as if to strike Homer. Then, apparently having a second thought, he lo
wered it. “It’s not often I hear so many lies told at the same time. For not much, I’d flog you to an inch of your life. However, you’re saved from the cat for the moment because the captain wants to see you. Come with me.”
The other men were grabbing at Albert, trying to get a grip on him, but Albert was holding his own. He turned to present his teeth to each man who came near. Homer crawled over to shield him. “If you’re going to throw my alligator overboard, you’ll have to toss me in with him.”
“Leave the creature alone, you boys!” Vintner growled. “We’ll let the captain decide what to do.”
“Do you have a rope I could use to make a leash?” Homer asked. “Albert will walk on a leash.”
“There’s no rope on this tub, you gnarly landsman,” Vintner snarled, “but there is line. You’ll not use the foul word rope again as long as you’re a crewman on this boat. Understood?”
“But I’m not a crewman,” Homer said.
Vintner laughed, and harshly.
Homer was handed a length of what appeared to be a rope by the boy in the tub hat, who said, “Here’s your line.”
“Why do they call this a line and not a rope?” Homer asked in a whisper.
“No idea, sir. And if you know what’s good for you, you won’t ask any more questions about it. Chief Vintner will take a loop of rope, I mean line, and give you a bash for it, don’t think he won’t.”
Homer shrugged, then used what still appeared to be a rope to fashion a leash for Albert. When he was done, Chief Vintner took Homer by the arm. “Come now, we’ll meet the captain!”
Vintner, holding a sack filled with the burlap bags, also recovered from the sea, dragged Homer along while Albert waddled behind. Now that nobody was trying to grab him, he began to inspect the boat with interest. Soon he was grinning.
On the bridge, Chief Vintner knocked on the hatch and a booming voice yelled, “Enter!”
Vintner dragged Homer and Albert inside. “Captain Wolf, these are the two fellows we pulled out of the drink!”