An Incident At Bloodtide

by George C. Chesbro

  "So tonight they're going to make a final decision on what to do with the flag?"

  "Nope. The flag is back on the altar. Bennett Carver's not a man to mess with. The meeting's about whether or not to fire the assistant pastor, and maybe the pastor as well for letting things get out of hand."

  I stopped paddling, leaned forward on the pontoon. "Shit, brother, I don't know about you, but I am one tired puppy."

  "Yeah. But unless — "

  We both turned at the sound of a powerful engine behind us, saw a rack of very bright lights on the bridge of what appeared to be a commercial fishing boat, or maybe the Coast Guard. Both the red and green running lights on the bow were visible, which meant the boat was coming directly at us, and at high speed. I tossed my paddle onto the canvas trampoline, stood up on the pontoon, and gripped one of the steel shrouds. The small mountain of lights and rising cascade of sound kept coming on the same course — directly toward us. At the rate he was going, he would be on us in less than a minute. He was going to be close — too close. Even if the captain of the boat saw the cat in time to turn away, there was a good chance he would pass close enough for his wake to capsize us.

  I said, "It may be about time to abandon ship, brother."

  Garth held up his hand. "Wait. If we jump off, and he veers away in the wrong direction, we're in trouble."

  "It looks to me like we're in trouble right now."

  Suddenly the roar of the boat's engine became a purr as the captain cut back on the throttle and veered sharply to his right. A few seconds later his wake arrived, but it was directly to our stern and rolled harmlessly under us. We bounced up and down a half dozen times, and then the water became still again. The brightly lighted boat, its engine thrumming in idle, had stopped, and was positioned about thirty yards off our port beam. One of the spotlights on the bridge swiveled in our direction, bathing us in a blinding, white glow. We shielded our eyes with our hands and squinted, trying to see who was on the boat. Garth saluted tentatively. If it was the Coast Guard, we were going to get a ticket for being on the river at night without lights, but at least we'd get towed to shore.

  Very slowly, so as not to create too much of a wake, the boat circled around and came alongside us on the port beam. Then the spotlight that had been kept aimed on us was turned off. I blinked and rubbed my eyes. When I looked up again I was able to make out the figure of a burly black man, about six feet tall, standing at the stern of the boat, one hand on the helm and the other resting on his starboard gunwale as he stared down at us, a big grin on his face. The boat was a trawler, perhaps thirty feet long, with a phalanx of tires strung along the side to act as fenders. The man was dressed in baggy khaki shorts and a tank-top T-shirt that emphasized his athletic build. He had sharply chiseled features, piercing black eyes, and gray hair and beard that made him older than his well-muscled body would indicate.

  "Help is at hand, brother," Garth said to me, then turned and waved to the man at the helm of the trawler. "Hello, Tom. You're probably thinking that we're happy to see you."

  "Yeah, I might think that," the man replied drily in a deep, rich baritone that could easily be heard over the subterranean murmur of his boat's engine. "You're a long way from home, Garth. How the hell'd you get way down here?"

  Garth shrugged. "Expert seamanship. What else?"

  "Want a tow?"

  "I thought you'd never ask."

  The man pulled ahead slightly, then reached down and picked up a coiled line. He attached one end of the line to a cleat on the stern on his boat, then tossed the coil onto the center of the trampoline. I took the other end, tied it around the bow frame, at the base of the mast, with a bowline knot. Garth lowered the sail and tied it around the boom, then raised the flippers. Thus secured, the cat would track fairly straight in the calm water, with minimal risk of pitchpoling.

  "Mongo, meet Captain Tom Blaine," Garth continued as we clambered up over the stern of the trawler. "Riverkeeper, relentless scourge of polluters, and on occasions like this a friend indeed."

  The man smiled, revealing even, white teeth that shone in the bright lights. His grip was very firm, that of a man who'd spent a good part of his life working with his hands. "You must be Garth's famous brother, Robert," he said. "I've heard a lot about you, and it's a pleasure to meet you."

  "Well, I'll plead guilty to being Garth's brother, Captain, and my friends call me Mongo. This rescue at sea definitely qualifies you as a friend. Glad to meet you."

  Tom Blaine nodded, then leaned over the stern to check the rigging and knot I'd used to secure the catamaran. Apparently satisfied, he turned back to the helm, put the engine into gear, and brought the throttle up. He slowly brought the trawler around, pointing upriver. With its flippers out of the water, the cat swung wide as we turned, but then obediently fell into line behind us as we headed north.

  "There's a jug of iced tea and a thermos with a little coffee in the galley. Sorry I can't offer you hydraulic sandwiches. I don't believe in taking alcohol out on the river."

  "Iced tea sounds just about right to me," Garth said. "I'm so dehydrated that I'd probably pass out if I drank a beer right now. Mongo?"

  "Actually, I could use a double Scotch, but I'll have some of the coffee, if there's enough. Otherwise, make it two iced teas."

  Garth nodded, then ducked down into the galley while I seated myself on a large, coiled hawser. To my right were three green plastic jugs, scuba gear, and a black rubber diver's wetsuit that was sitting in a puddle of water, as if it had been recently used.

  "You dive in the river, Tom?" I asked. "I wouldn't think there'd be much to see."

  The big black man grunted, then half turned his head and spoke to me over his shoulder. "The Hudson ain't the Caribbean, and that's for sure. It's got a silt bottom, always stirred up by current and tides. You can't see a damn thing, but sometimes you have to go underwater to get what you've gotta get. As long as you know exactly what you're looking for, where and when to go down, and which way is up, you'll be all right."

  "Garth called you a riverkeeper. That's an official title? This is your job, patrolling the river?"

  "Between Palisades and West Point, yeah."

  "You work for the state?"

  Tom Blaine's response was a humorless laugh. "Hardly. The Cairn Fishermen's Association pays me. It's my job to monitor pollution."

  "You've got a lot of territory to cover."

  "You're telling me. I put in seventy, sometimes eighty, hours a week." He paused, then added, "But it's good work. I love it. I like to think I make a difference, which isn't something too many people in this world we live in can say. I've lived on this river all my life. Grew up in what used to be a shantytown just south of Haverstraw. That's when the river was used as a dumping ground and toilet by all the rich people who hadn't figured out yet how nice it could be living next to the water. They all had their big mansions inland, and we lived off the river, fishing and crabbing. Sometimes we'd find shit — I mean that literally — washed up on the shore when the tide went out. It's taken a lot to get this river back to where it is now. I was with Pete Seeger when he and some other folks were organizing to build the Clearwater, and working to clean up the river. I used to do this kind of thing on my own, as a volunteer, but after I retired, the Fishermen's Association hired me to do it full-time. I keep my eyes open, watch out for polluters, and turn over evidence to the association to use in court when they sue to stop the sons-of-bitches. You'd be amazed at the attitudes of some of these people. They seem to believe — no, they do believe — that God put this river here for their private use, to pour shit into and take money out." He paused, half turned to look at me, then nodded in the direction of the green jugs sitting next to me. "Some people's attitudes are worse than others'. Those are the bastards I love to get."

  I glanced at the jugs and diving gear. "What do you have to dive for that you can't find on the surface, Tom?"

  He again looked around at me. He seemed about to speak
, but then glanced in the direction of the galley, where Garth had gone, and apparently had second thoughts about answering my question specifically. "Some of the crap-dumping bastards are tricky, Mongo. Or they think they're being tricky. You've got to be a little tricky yourself in order to catch them, and prove them guilty in court. It takes time to build a case, and it's not a good idea to talk too much about it before you turn what you've got over to the lawyers."

  Which, I thought, was a polite way of telling me to mind my own business — or there was something he didn't want Garth to know, which I found unlikely, unless it had something to do with the fact that Garth was now a local resident.

  Garth must have overheard the last part of our conversation, because he was laughing when he emerged from the galley, a glass of iced tea in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. "And nobody's trickier than Tom," he said, handing me the coffee. "He's a polluter's nightmare. If he got even a small percentage of what he's cost some of these companies in fines, lawyers' fees, and court costs, he'd be a rich man. Powerful men in certain factories along this river have been known to tremble in terror when Tom's boat comes into sight."

  Tom Blaine raised one hand off the helm and waved it at Garth in a self-deprecating gesture. "Your brother's a sailing fool, Mongo. You should have known better than to go out with him on that little toy you've got back there. You know, this isn't the first time I've had to tow him home, either because there wasn't enough wind, or too much of it."

  Garth laughed again. "Watch what you say there, Captain. You're talking to the man who taught me how to sail."

  "Really?" the gray-haired, gray-bearded man replied, apparently surprised. "Where'd you learn to sail, Mongo?"

  "In the library, and out here. Hey, Captain, I live in the city. When my brother and sister-in-law bought a house right on the Hudson, complete with boathouse, you'd better believe I was going to take advantage of it. I'd always wanted to learn to sail, so I bought them that used Hoby Cat as a housewarming present."

  The riverkeeper again looked around at me. "No lessons?"

  "Lots of books. And the Hudson River is a great teacher."

  "But a tough one," the other man replied evenly. "A guy can get killed out here if he doesn't know what he's doing."

  "Oh, Mongo knows what he's doing, all right," Garth said drily. "He's a classic overachiever. Once he takes it into his head that he's going to do something, there's no stopping him until he's done it — and usually well. He's pretty damn good on that cat. Give him a stiff breeze that would blow me over, and he's out there flying a hull."

  I offered my brother a pained grimace, spoke again to the riverkeeper. "Tom, you say you work for a private organization, doing work that benefits all of us. I would think that monitoring pollution levels would be the job of the state or federal government."

  Tom Blaine grunted derisively. "That it is, Mongo. On paper. Both have monitoring and enforcement responsibilities. The problem is getting either the state or federal government to do its job — they spend more time arguing about turf than taking care of the river. A lot of it has to do with politics. Things weren't so bad when Shannon was President, but then he went and got himself thrown out of office, and now the right-wingers are back in power. To them, their business buddies can do no wrong, and people who care about air and water are just pains in the ass out to wreck the economy. The result is that the monitoring and protective agencies get no money, and not a whole lot of effort is put into enforcement. Even when workers do see violations, their bosses won't let them do anything about it. Hell, we actually get tips from state workers asking us to go after some shit-dumper because they can't do it themselves. So we do — which means I do. Sometimes we'll go to the Coast Guard, which is supposed to be the big gun on the river, but they'd rather play soldier than sheriff. It seems they're on the lookout for terrorists sailing up the river to blow up Poughkeepsie. I used to try to prod them into doing what they're supposed to do, but I finally gave up. Now I just turn any evidence I find over to the Fishermen's Association, and their lawyers go after the pricks in court. That works. The fines are usually a joke, but the bad publicity embarrasses the bastards, and they usually stop whatever it is they've been doing — for a time anyway. When they start up again, we sue them again. It's a constant battle. But damned if the river doesn't continue to get cleaner. I'm in a position to know." He paused, turned to look at the green jugs next to the coil of rope on which I sat. "It's the unbelievable arrogance of the sons-of-bitches that gets to me; that, and their hypocrisy. You'll hear these people carrying on in church about all the wonderful things in God's world, and then they go out on Monday morning and virtually shit in one of the most beautiful rivers God ever created. You'll hear them yammering about what a great country this is; they cry when they sing 'America the Beautiful,' and they tell you flag burners should be shot. And then they spend their working hours spitting on America's face. It's unbelievable."

  It was now dark on the river, except for the lights of the towns and anchorages on both shores, our running lights, and those of the other boats on the water. Tom Blaine must have seen something floating in the water ahead, for he eased back on the throttle, veered off to starboard. Garth and I got to our feet, looked over the side as a large log drifted past. It bumped gently against one of the catamaran's pontoons, then disappeared into the darkness.

  The riverkeeper's anger and passion now seemed at least banked, if not spent, and he fell silent and attentive as the three of us gazed out over the river. Garth and I remained at the rail, enjoying the special thrill and beauty of being on the Hudson at night — specks of light on black velvet, the lapping sounds of the water passing under us, the reassuring purr of the trawler's engine. Behind us, the lights of the Tappan Zee Bridge, a necklace of emeralds and white gold, were rapidly growing fainter, like last night's dream receding into memory. We'd had our adventure for the day, and it felt good to be going home.

  Chapter Two

  Tom Blaine brought us to within a hundred yards of the beach on Garth's property. We hopped back on the catamaran, untied the towline, thanked him profusely, then proceeded to make our way to shore. It was high tide, and we paddled our way under the overhang that was both a family music room and a state-of-the-art recording studio where Mary and her musician friends laid down many of the tracks for her best-selling albums. We pulled the cat up on the beach, in front of the original boathouse on which the main house had been built, then walked up the path leading to the side door. I was thoroughly exhausted, but it was a healthy fatigue, free of mental stress. Being out on the water always did wonders for my head. The mellow high I was enjoying would last until at least midmorning on Monday. Now I was ready for a hot shower, a good stiff Scotch, and some music — live music, if Mary felt like playing her guitar or the piano — dinner, and then sleep. I knew I was going to feel good driving into the city in the morning.

  As we came to the side of the house, I noticed a late-model green Cadillac parked in the driveway behind Mary's Wagoneer. I said, "It looks like you've got company."

  Garth merely shrugged, then led the way through the screen door at the side of the house. "Mary?" he called cheerfully. "Guess who's back? It's just like Mongo says: there's nothing like a short sail before dinner to whet your appetite. Mary?"

  There was no response, and we walked into the spacious living room with its pine walls and fireplaces at the north and south ends. "Mary?" Garth called again. "You home?"

  "We're in here, Garth." Mary's voice, coming from the music room off to our left, sounded strained, nervous.

  Garth and I exchanged glances, and then I followed him into the music room, which was essentially a large, enclosed deck overlooking the river. It was my favorite room; despite the clutter of cables, amplifiers, and huge, studio-quality speakers, I found it comfortable and cozy, a place where you could sit in an easy chair and look out over the river through the wraparound windows, read, or listen to music, or just think.

 
But now the room was filled with an almost palpable atmosphere of tension apparently generated by the lanky stranger who was slumped in Garth's favorite chair, a leather recliner, with his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles.

  Mary was seated on a straight-backed chair between two five-foot-high floor speakers. Her back was stiff, not touching the chair, and both feet were flat on the floor. Her large hands with their long fingers were clenched tightly in her lap. She was wearing her waist-length, gray-streaked yellow hair in a ponytail that was pulled back tightly from her face and held in place with a calico ribbon. As usual when she was home, she wore no makeup, and her flesh, normally a golden brown in the summer from the sun, now looked pale, almost translucent, like delicate china. Her blue eyes seemed cloudy, and she appeared to be very tense, perhaps afraid.

  The man in Garth's recliner did not rise, but instead stared intently at my brother and me with cold, black eyes that were bright with intelligence, but also tinted with cruelty. I judged he would be six-four or six-five if he were standing, a couple of inches taller than Garth, but much thinner. He wore jeans, the bottoms tucked into the tops of highly polished black cowboy boots with silver chains draped around the ankles. His black T-shirt was too large for him and hung loosely on his tall frame. Crawling out onto his flesh from both sleeves were black tattoos that appeared to be the clawed, hairy legs of some creature, perhaps a spider that might be tattooed on his chest. He had angular features, with high cheekbones, long nose, and pronounced chin. His hair was black — too black, with a flat, matte appearance that made me think the color had come out of a bottle. I put his age at around forty-five. His thin lips were slightly parted in what seemed to me an insouciant, arrogant smile. I instantly disliked the man and was certain that his presence in the house meant trouble. He was obviously in no hurry to introduce himself, and Mary was too distracted, or fearful, to do the honors.