Shatto's Way

by Roy F. Chandler

  He slipped into a clean sweat suit and donned thick wool socks to pad around in. He dumped a soup can into a pan, added water and placed it on the stove top. Stirring slowly, he had time to think and consider his actions.

  He thought first of his trembling funk at the moment of shooting. Only weeks earlier he had killed six people. Why should he have choked so badly this time?

  He supposed it was the innocent appearing helplessness of the man's back that had gotten him. They'd all been raised to despise "backshooters." Well, that was movie and paperback foolishness. In this new world you shot first at whatever you could see.

  He had killed the woman without compunction, and why not? The gun she was carrying made her pretty equal, and there wasn't much sense that he could see in feeling her life more valuable than some other. Again, he hadn't been raised that way, but early teachings now fell far behind just staying alive.

  He hadn't gotten Praying Mantis though. If he had stayed calm and picked his shots maybe he could have. The rage had felt good. A tremendous relief that sucked the indecision and confusion right out of him. Maybe he had needed it this one time, but in the future he would stay calm and keep thinking.

  The future? Was this to be his future? Alone, fighting like a wild man to stay alive? There had to be more.

  He sipped his warm soup directly from the pan, feeling its heat in his cold belly and raising the tiredness even higher.

  He put the pan aside to clean later and curled on his bed close beside the pair of empty pistols. He pulled a thick blanket over himself and, in preparing to think more about things, fell deep asleep.

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  Chapter 17

  The vast Atlantic, once crowded with shipping, broiled beneath unrelenting sun. No cloud edged the horizon, and no breath of air stirred the faintest ripple across the boundless blue mirror.

  To the north, dead fish had speckled the water as far as a lookout could see. Most had since released their gasses and sunk from view but their stench lingered on and mountains of their decayed carcasses buried Europe's shorelines.

  The fish kill had been massive beyond measuring almost to the Canary Islands and, farther south near the bottom of Africa, it began again.

  But at 20° north latitude, sweet trade winds still blew westward as they always had and just to the north the windless doldrums stewed and fried the unwary choosing to cross them.

  The catamaran lay alone within the bowl of silent ocean. Its sails drooped in sullen surrender, and except beneath a sailcloth shade suspended above the cockpit, the deck was too hot to stand upon.

  For days the Iroquois had lain motionless, moved only by invisible ocean currents. Noon sightings marked southern progress in tiny figures. Twenty miles one day, only fourteen another. Somewhere to the south the great trades should rush toward the Americas. Truly, they should have been found before now, and to those waiting it seemed conceivable that even mighty sky currents could have been torn from their channels.

  Hanna sprawled listlessly on a cockpit cushion careful to keep well beneath the canopy's shade. Stifling enough when shadowed, the direct sunlight sucked the moisture from anything it touched and crisped even the toughest of skins.

  The boy Ehmad slept on the cockpit sole, his small body unaffected by the plastic hardness or lack of a pillow. The youth's tough resiliency and his ability to accept each day as it was, buoyed Hanna's sometimes faltering will to continue.

  Pointing away from the devastation that had been Alexandria, she had only fled. To do something had been necessary, but beyond putting safe distance between the boat and the Moslem mob she had not ventured.

  Shock had worn slowly away, but the pain of irretrievable loss that replaced it left her confused and indecisive. She responded slowly to the demands of sailing, and her mind skirted even the immediate dangers of ocean cruising.

  Ken was gone. Somehow she could accept that but the will to face a world being blasted perhaps to oblivion eluded her. Ehmad's frantic shaking would rouse her enough to trim sail or alter course, but for the most part she hunched above her tiller dozing in desperate escape.

  Through a night of soft air the catamaran sailed. A single halyard had remained usable allowing the mainsail to be raised. Without a jib the boat cruised slowly, barely making enough way to give rudder bite.

  Hanna had found the interest to switch on the compass light so that a northern heading could be maintained, but the fear that gripped her also forbade running lights and the boat sailed unlighted and unmarked through the darkness.

  Thirst began her return to awareness. The effort of going below and canting a plastic container over a cup caused her to begin looking about. Ehmad appeared instantly, his own cup held beggar-like within two dirty hands. She filled his cup and filled it again as he drank with almost comic relief.

  She felt ashamed that the boy suffered because she had drooped like a dotty old fool and realized that he must also be hungry. The process of laying out a simple meal of bread, cheese, and some of the fresh fruit roused her further and she began to take interest in their position.

  The boat's radio always received a powerful BBC station with clarity and on this second day it spoke of little other than the double nuclear attack on Egypt. Throughout the world, armed forces mustered. Arab nations hysterically blamed Israel, but the Israelis answered with unshakable logic that the rain of fallout descended heaviest on their country and if they had wished to annihilate their only Arab friend, it would surely have occurred after having eliminated their Arab enemies.

  The Soviet Union blamed the imperialistic West, and the United States held the Soviet Union primarily responsible on the basis of intelligence data that could not be released for national security reasons. The United Nations met—and Hanna and Ehmad sailed on.

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  Their chosen destination became Gibraltar, there to enplane for the United States. The question of admittance for the boy would be worried through somehow. The Rock lay two thousand miles westward, hard into prevailing winds and current. A mighty sail, properly crewed; shorthanded and inexperienced, the voyage was a severe challenge. Yet Hanna feared landing en route. The staunch and unflappable British would know what to do.

  The many volatile ports between offered no such certainty.

  Hung from the single working halyard, Ehmad was winched aloft to reeve new jib, staysail, and spinnaker halyards. The wind vane self-steerer was mounted and serious sailing could begin. Under main and working jib, the boat drove to weather, laying long tacks in each direction while her occupants established shipboard routines.

  Though formidable, the voyage was far from unprecedented. Women had soloed around the world and female double-handed blue water sailing was common. But for Hanna, Ken had always led the way. Together they had learned to ocean sail, but although she respected her own ability, her man had remained the primary decision maker. Now, the tasks were hers alone, and she found the burdens many.

  Ken had taken the few navigational sun shots they had deemed necessary. Wrapped around pulpit and forestay, she now found the horizon bobbing wildly or frustratingly lost in heat mirage. Her fixes were often ludicrous and, once, she positioned them hard aground on Malta. Gradually the errors decreased and believable positions became common. Weaving across the broad Mediterranean their progress was slow, and to complete two thousand western miles they must sail three thousand angular miles.

  As they neared the strait through which all must pass, great ships slid by them with increasing frequency, yet they were still few in number. The BBC spoke long of increasing political and economic demise and even the vaunted English stiff upper lip trembled as catastrophe surmounted catastrophe.

  A few days sail from their destination, announcements of appalling significance squelched their anticipation of voyage end. Commercial overseas flights from most nations had ceased. Political confusion, fuel unavailability, and labor violence forced the decisions.

  Stranded travelers rioted throughout the globe but few
gained satisfaction. If planes still flew, they were unscheduled and unannounced.

  More crushing was the angry revelation of a powerful Spanish attempt to reclaim Gibraltar from British control. Fighting already raged and landing would be foolhardy, if even possible.

  Choices aboard the catamaran were few but they required serious evaluation. None were desirable. and a wrong decision might be terminal.

  The choice was Hanna's alone. The boy could not discuss a world about which he knew nothing. Their food supplies could withstand months of careful rationing, but fresh water could become critical. Ken had guttered the bridge cabin roof to collect rainwater if desired, and easing the main halyard would lower the boom end, funneling rain water into a bucket as well. Assuming enough rain, they might continue indefinitely.

  The longer she considered, the more practical one plan became. The daring of it thrilled her, and if they succeeded many potential problems would be solved.

  She believed the boy was up to it. He learned quickly and was dependable beyond expectations. How old was he?

  At least twelve, and perhaps, fourteen they had figured.

  A street child, he had begged, fought, and stolen to exist. In times of stress aboard the boat his ingrained toughness appeared and he could pull like a man and remain clearheaded and prepared. He lived on little and found the small yacht luxurious beyond prior dreams. The boy would do—but would she?

  As children, Toby Shatto, Chop Clouser and she had voyaged on their rafts and rowboats. Cocalamus Creek had first allowed bumpy, turbulent rides as later the Juniata had provided cruises of many hours. They had talked of great adventures, always with Captain Shatto on the bridge, and whether pirating on the Spanish Main or rounding the Horn en route to the Spice Islands, they were certain of success.

  Toby had sailed, of course, but Chop had never graduated beyond the Juniata, and neither had dared the plan Hanna now took to her chart table.

  To sail home, that was the thing! South to the Canaries, about eight hundred miles. Then south again to the trade winds. Turn west and ride the great air currents to the Lesser Antilles, perhaps three thousand more miles. North, finally, to her own country. North, perhaps to Florida, or if it demanded, another two weeks to the head of Chesapeake Bay.

  She had only Ocean Passages of the World to navigate by, but she had the boat and she possessed the skills—if she had the heart.

  The decision was suddenly made for her. Nuclear bombing began again in South Africa and spread cancer-like across the earth. Were they bombs, missiles, or pre-planted devices? No one was able to report. The great BBC went silent in mid-sentence, and Hanna turned south for the long reach down the coast of Africa to the beckoning warmth and traditional welcome of the Canary Islands.

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  Idyllic sailing had marked their passage to the Canaries. Warm westerlies held steady with enough short but rain deluging squalls to keep the water containers filled.

  Sail was kept minimal with safety rating far above speed, and the slow voyage provided time for thoughtful consideration of their prospects.

  If death's tortured claws had brushed them at Alexandria, the timeless ocean renewed their lives. For the boy, with only squalor left behind, the new life provided womb-like security and personal attention he had never experienced. Accustomed to little, even the boat's limited larder offered him exciting discoveries, and regular meals rapidly filled out his once bony frame.

  For Hanna, it was a time of rediscovery. Ken and their life together fell behind. Command of her small vessel renewed long dormant trust in unused abilities and increasing faith in her assessments and judgments.

  With time for introspection, she could wonder at the forces that had drawn her from the lands of her youth to place her directly in the path of humanity's ultimate violence.

  How different life would have been had she remained at home. She would have married Toby Shatto, and that certainty always gave her pause. Ken Weigel had swept in from his foreign service like a breath of fresh air. He offered lifetime security spiced with distant travel and a strong and possessive love. He roused in her a titillated romance that familiar Toby Shatto failed to match.

  In retrospect, she could believe that if Toby had appeared during those short courting months she might not have fallen, but he was busy with his beloved computers and acted far too late.

  For a time she had luxuriated in Toby's ill-disguised dismay, but such satisfaction was peripheral to forming a new life with her husband. In retrospect, she knew she had erred. Not that Ken was less than expected. Rather that she realized, somewhere deep within, that Toby was whom she had always wanted and whom she had expected to marry. Despite her devotion and loyalty to her husband, that secret knowledge was always present.

  Sandwiched between ship's duties and the daily lessons she allocated for the boy were long hours for consideration of what lay ahead.

  That they would complete their voyage was settled in her mind. That the two of them would reach the safety of Perry County was just as certain. She could imagine their arrival and the excitement their great voyage would generate in the communities. In her every daydream, Toby was there, admiring in his quiet way, his black eyes snapping approval and appreciation.

  As the weeks passed, her dreams settled into a single pattern and in those glorious moments, Toby loomed ever more prominent. Oh, he would be there all right! He, above all, was prepared, and he above all, could handle the worst that could be thrown at him.

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  They made landfall at Las Palmas. After forty-five days at sea the ground rolled beneath them and the land sounds confused ears unaccustomed to clamor.

  News was all bad. Radiation was reported scarring the industrial north, and great cities lay dead and dying. Most of the American east coast lay in ruins, some from warfare, more from desperate, mindless violence.

  Terrorism and anarchy roamed unbridled, and for the first time, Hanna wondered if Perry County had survived, and if Toby really would be there to greet them.

  Conventional supplies were unobtainable. Nothing came from the mainland and nothing was expected. In desperation, Hanna traded their faithful but little used engine for produce, and sailed southward for the trades.

  They fished constantly to supplement their stores but catches were few. Until the doldrums they moved smartly, realizing the need to reach the West Indies before the time of the great summer storms. Every breeze wasted, lost precious distance and time afloat ate inexorably into their depleted food lockers.

  The doldrums wasted everything. No breezes cooled their brows or rested nerves already tightly drawn. The days burned their souls, while glassy nights reflected stars in seas so smooth one could confuse up with down. Occasional showers that dumped inches of rain without enough wind to fill a sail replenished their fresh water. The southern drift would eventually move them into prevailing easterlies if they could survive long enough.

  Southwest of the Verdes the great winds finally appeared. From the east they came at an unremitting twenty knots and with almost childish enthusiasm the catamaran was turned with them. Wing and wing they sailed due west with the first Americas almost three thousand miles ahead.

  The days flew with a new monotonous regularity. No sail adjustments were needed. A casual noon sight marked their position, and a slight course alteration might then be turned onto the faithful steering vane.

  Classes remained long, for soon the boy would be among Americans, and he must know many things.

  At one such lesson Hanna renamed him. With dancing eyes and fiercely dark complexion he looked the pirate, and she chose to call him after her own legendary ancestor. Carter Roth, who was said to have appeared from the sea with a ring in his ear to be the first of their clan to settle in Perry County.

  The boy needed a proper American name or his way would be even harder. She explained the necessity of being like the people he would live among, and he accepted the new name as readily as he had his place aboard the boat. They pra
cticed the new name until it became natural, and she thought of him always as young Carter Ehmad Roth.

  The westward race was on, for behind the swiftly sailing catamaran the first of the giant hurricanes began forming off the coast of Africa.

  At first only a tropical depression, it grew powerfully, and its vast winds began the mighty counterclockwise rotation that could build to hurricane forces that turmoiled the seas and gave wind velocities beyond one hundred miles per hour.

  Unknowing, the catamaran sped westward. Behind it the great storm gathered and began unrelenting pursuit.

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  Chapter 18

  Along with improved weather, new bands of homeless appeared in Perry County. They wandered in all directions searching for food, shelter, and security. Most were former city dwellers evicted by promiscuous burning and rabid mobs. They carried or dragged pitiful belongings that ill-suited their nomadic existence. Themselves victims, they were usually fearful or servilely friendly, but some had reverted to baser instincts and robbed or killed as a situation demanded.

  Searching every hollow in hope of new beginning, many found Shatto's. Usually Toby met them. If not, he arrived before they could settle in.

  Typically, the wanderers first approached the heavily-boarded house and Toby could tell much by their initial attitudes. Those who called out and then acted indecisively were approachable and were easily moved on.

  Others who advanced warily with ready weapons required extra caution. If they began to break into the house, Toby recognized them as highly dangerous.

  Roaming Turkey Ridge and scouting out as far as the highway, Toby detected most wanderers. By never using his tree-blocked and overgrown lane he deterred some groups from turning in, but others investigated anyway.

  Then he lay in wait for them, well hidden but with open fields of fire.