Code name, p.25
Code Name, page 25
“Good thing y’all came home with me, huh? This would’ve been a rough place to have a baby.”
“You really saved us, Franco. We owe you our lives.”
“Ah, y’all don’t owe us nothin’. Y’all just be good to that baby. By the way, what we gonna call her?”
“Well, Laura and I talked about that last night. She was born in the middle of Hurricane Carli, so we thought we’d name her Carli Marie.”
“Hmm, Carli Marie. That has a nice sound to it. Mama will be honored.” Then his eyes brightened. “Y’all don’t think you could work the name Franco in there somehow, do you?” He laughed.
“Well, let’s see, Carli Marie Franco Benton. It’s a little long on the tongue, but I can ask Laura what she thinks.”
“Ah, I was just kiddin’,” the old man chuckled.
It took twenty minutes to reach the abandoned salt mine. It was visible for some distance because of the large concrete building, now mostly stripped of its whitewash after years of neglect.
Franco led the way up the ramp to the loading dock and into the building. The old man was right about things being a mess inside, as if the company had shut down quickly, left in a hurry and never came back.
“Why was everything left like this?” Mark asked.
“Well, nobody know for sure, but the rumor was the company was somehow involved in drugs – maybe a place where drug boats landed to unload, and then it was mixed in with the salt, and … well, I don’t know for sure.”
“I can see how that would work,” Mark nodded, “small plastic bags of dope hidden inside large bags of salt, then shipped all over the country.”
“The word was that one day the govemint found out about it and the next thing you know, this place was out of business. I guess they left so fast they had to leave everything behind.”
“When did all this happen?”
“Oh, been five or six years now, maybe even more; a man loses track of time down here.”
Time had not been kind to the building, or to the things stored inside. Humidity had soaked all the cardboard boxes. Bales of canvas bags, labeled for rock salt, were stacked against one wall. Next to the bags was a stack of spools of heavy waxed twine, used to stitch the canvas bags shut. File cabinets in the office had been emptied, drawers left open, everything rusting in the salt air.
From the office, Mark glanced out the window toward the bay and was stopped by what he saw. There, not a hundred yards away, was a mast. Only the top couple of feet were visible, and the spar was tilted over at a severe angle, but it was unmistakably a mast.
“Franco,” Mark shouted, “what do you make of that?”
The old man came to the window.
Mark pointed, “There, look over there, what do you see?”
“Ahh,” the old man breathed, “looks like a mast. We go have a look.”
They raced outside. Mark ran toward the distant sound of lightly breaking waves. The dune dropped suddenly, and there on the beach was a small sailboat. She had been thrown well up on the sand by storm surge, left stranded high and dry, and lay heeled over, propped to one side by the keel.
Mark raced down the dune to the beach below and ran to the boat. Franco followed, and arriving at the shipwreck he smiled, “Ah, what a pretty little gift from heaven, eh?”
At the bow, a short piece of nylon dock line hung from a cleat, the end chewed to a ragged fray. Somewhere in the Gulf of Mexico, the other end of that dock line was tied to a larger boat or to a pier. The line had chafed in two by constant abrasion as the boat was blown this way and that in a relentless wind. Wherever she was from, she had survived a wild ride only to find herself resting on a deserted beach in Atchafalaya Bay.
Shreds of sailcloth flapped lazily from the boom. The main sail had apparently been slab reefed on the boom and lashed down, but the wind had ripped it loose and thrashed it to ribbons.
Mark guessed she was about sixteen feet in length and nearly six feet on the beam. The mast was relatively short and was originally gaff rigged, although the gaff was now missing. Her transom was reversed, with a small opening for the tiller to pass through to the rudder. Curved benches, matching the graceful sweep of the hull, extended about eight feet along both sides of the cockpit, and a platform spanned the stern at bench level.
She was an open boat, with only a small enclosed compartment for sail storage forward of the mast. Mark recognized the design. It was originally created by the legendary Nathanael Green Herreshoff nearly sixty years in the past, and was an example of the master designer’s later work. Mark had seen this type of sailboat back in his college days. Sailing had been the one concession he made to recreation back then, and he had loved it.
“Franco, this is exactly what we need,” he said excitedly. “But the sails are blown to bits.”
“Then, we make new ones.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Those big bales of canvas in there …” Franco pointed at the warehouse, “… they finally be useful. Marie is great with needle and thread. We whip up good sails in no time.”
For the next hour, the men dug with their hands to move the sand away from the keel and inspected for damage. She was a tough little boat, and the only apparent injuries were cosmetic. The rigging appeared strong. The mast and boom were undamaged. The hull had been roughed up a little, but it was still sound. Rudder and tiller were okay.
“With a little work and a fresh suit of sails, she’ll do,” Mark said.
But in the back of his mind, a thought troubled him. It’s one thing to choose your weather window and sail a small boat in protected waters. It’s something else to place your life and loved-ones in such a small craft and cross nearly 600 miles of open ocean with no place to hide if the weather kicks up. He had some experience sailing small boats, and had even taken a course in offshore sailing in foul weather. But that was in heavy-displacement keelboats that were built to cruise the world in rough conditions. This little Herreshoff was intended as a recreational day-sailor for good weather and protected waters. A voyage to Xulakan in this boat would be like crossing an ocean in a teacup.
Mark thought about the men who had crossed oceans in tiny boats before – some even smaller than this one, attempting to set records. In 1891, an American named Josiah Lawlor took 45 days to sail from Boston to Coverack in a fifteen-foot one-inch boat christened Sea Serpent.
The very next year, William A. Andrews sailed his fourteen-foot five-inch Sapolio across the ocean from Atlantic City to Palos, Spain in a little more than a month.
Then in 1939, Harry Young took 39 days to sail from New York to the Azores in an open homebuilt sloop measuring only thirteen feet nine inches.
As recently as 1964, an Englishman named John Riding had sailed to the Azores and then to Bermuda, and from there to Rhode Island in a twelve-foot sloop.
Mark wasn’t interested in setting any records. All he wanted was to get his little family to safety on an empty island 600 miles away, a voyage that he figured should take about seven days.
But he couldn’t hide from his worry. Even though this passage couldn’t compare with the incredible voyages across the Atlantic made by earlier sailors, it would nonetheless be an undertaking fraught with peril. They had to weigh the risk of attempting the voyage against the threat of being found by NIA. With the agency on his trail, it was only a matter of time before they were cornered and exterminated.
As he studied the boat, he thought about placing their lives in this little vessel and casting off for Xulakan.
If we make it, he thought, at least we can have a lifetime together.
He didn’t want to go through life in fear and paranoia, constantly looking over his shoulder, distrusting everyone, just waiting for the clock to run out. No matter what they did, it would be a gamble.
After a thorough inspection of the boat, the men headed back to the cabin. Laura was in the kitchen wiping dishes dry as Marie handed them to her while they chatted.
She noted his surprised look. “I couldn’t stay down. The baby’s fine, I’m okay, nothing to worry about. It’s time for me to be up and about, getting my strength back.”
“I found something,” he whispered.
“What is it?”
“I think it’s our way to Xulakan. It’s a small sailboat that blew ashore down by the old salt mine. It’s in good condition for being a shipwreck.”
“How big?”
“It’s an old Herreshoff, very solid, easy to sail—”
She pulled back from his hug. “How big, how old, how much of a shipwreck?” she asked again, this time with a little edge in her voice.
“Well,” he began, “not very big, actually, but seaworthy.”
She gave him a glance that told him he better come up with a size in his next breath or it may be his last.
“Okay, it’s about sixteen feet long, and—”
“Sixteen feet! My college roommate’s dad had a fishing boat that was twelve feet long. It was a twitchy little thing that always felt like it was ready to fall over. This is only four feet bigger than that!”
“Yes, but this is a sailboat, not a twitchy little fishing boat. Length is not the most important factor. What is important is how well the boat is constructed and how well it is sailed. This one is a Herreshoff.” He said the name with admiration, but saw from her blank gaze that the name meant nothing to her.
“Okay. I guess. What about the other part? You know, the part about how well it’s sailed?”
“I’ve sailed. I’ve been offshore in foul weather. I can handle this boat.”
“You said it was an old boat. How old are we talking?”
“An early design. That’s all I meant by old. It’s in very good condition.”
She regarded his words carefully, narrowing her eyes as if to say, “Yes but what else is there?”
“All right now for the disclaimer.”
“Ah ha, I knew it!”
“Well,” he started slowly, “there are never any guarantees in life. Things can happen. The weather is the biggest concern. It’s a risk. There are always risks. I’m not saying we have to take this boat to Xulakan. Maybe we can find another way. Of course the car’s out of gas, and there’s a manhunt.”
She was quiet. The baby began to cry and she turned and walked away to attend to Carli. With a great sigh, he turned to the window, knowing that it was time to let everything sink in for a while before discussing the subject again.
Franco motioned him over to a chair. “Life is complicated when children come along. All of a sudden life look more scary, and it not so easy to take chances any more. She need time to think ’bout all this.”
Mark nodded.
“But I already talk with Mama, and she say she be happy to sew up the sails for the boat. Of course, I don’t know nothin’ about sails.”
“Thanks, Franco. I can show Marie how to make sails. I think you’re right about Laura. But maybe we can start on the sails anyway?”
“Sure thing. That way, when she make up her mind, the boat be all ready to go.”
“And if she decides she doesn’t want to go on the boat, at least you’ll have a nice little sailboat so you can take Marie out for romantic cruises in the sunset.”
Franco laughed and slapped Mark on the shoulder. “Ah, you be a great youngun’ – always thinking of Franco and his love life.”
In the wake of the extreme low-pressure storm, a powerful high-pressure ridge moved in and turned the storm northeast. While the hurricane blew itself out over Mississippi, the Atchafalaya was beginning to simmer under a flawless blue sky and sizzling sun.
Mark and Franco waited until early evening, when the heat and humidity began to subside, before returning to the old salt mine. Even then, with temperature and humidity numbers nearly matching in the high 80s, they were sweltering. Sweat trickled off Mark’s body as he walked, giving him the feeling that bugs were running down his back and legs. It would be a night for lying on top of the sheets wondering when the air would cool down enough for sleep.
In the corner of the warehouse, empty canvas bags were tied in huge bales. Nature had begun to take its toll on the bundles, leaving a layer of mildew over the surface. He grabbed the edge of a bag and tugged. The canvas fell apart in his fingers.
Franco cut the ties from one bundle and threw off the top few layers, revealing fresher-looking bags deeper in the stack. He grabbed a few, stretched them and found them sound. Franco tossed one to Mark. Maybe this’ll do.”
Mark tested the bag. It was strong. Protected in the middle of the bundle, the fabric had no evidence of rot.
“How many bags we need?” Franco asked.
“Tell you in a minute. Can I borrow your knife?” Mark slit the bag down one side and laid it open to see its size. After a few moments of mental calculation, he had the answer. “We’ll need about fifty bags. That’ll give us plenty of canvas to work with.”
The men picked out fifty of the best bags and laid them aside. “And we’ll need a spool of this waxed thread. Does Marie have a heavy needle?”
The old man eyed the thread. “Not big enough for this.”
“Well, somewhere around here there has to be a stitching machine that was used for sewing these bags shut. There should be a needle or two here someplace.”
Mark studied the layout of the plant. “Ah, there it is.” He pointed across the room. When the place was abandoned, the machine was apparently just shut off and left intact. A small drawer held spare parts, including several replacement needles. He took them all and stuffed them in his pocket.
“That should do it. Let’s go strip what’s left of the sails off the boat. With this canvas, we can use the original bolt ropes and whatever cringles are still left to make what we need.”
At the boat, they quickly removed the old sail material. The bolt ropes were in good condition, but a few of the reef cringles had blown away with the sailcloth as it was ripped to ribbons.
Mark walked around the hull, staring upward as he studied the mast. Most of the gaff was missing, although the control lines still hung among the rigging.
“What y’all think?”
“Well, I’m trying to decide if I should try to restore the gaff or just bend the sails on this short mast.”
“I don’t know what all that mean, but I help y’all make it the way it supposed to be.”
Mark pointed up the mast where the gaff had been connected and explained what was needed to restore the rig. The old man stood silently looking up, trying to understand all the technical details as Mark explained gaff rigging.
Franco nodded, seeming to understand. “No problem. We can make a new gaff, if y’all think that’s best.”
“We’ll need to replace the broken spar and re-rig her, but it’ll work. Then we need to get her back in the water. But for right now, let’s work on the sails and rebuild the gaff. Then we can figure out how to float her.”
The evening air hung like wet gauze, and each breath felt heavy and rich with moisture raised from the swamp by the day’s intense sunshine. It was good to reach the house and rest from carrying their load. Marie eyed the two bundles of canvas bags Mark was carrying on his shoulders. Franco laid the spool of twine on the table and helped Mark lower the bags to the floor. Mark reached in his pocket, pulled out the large needles and laid them beside the spool.
“This look like work to me,” Marie observed. “Y’all got somethin’ in mind for all this stuff that you’re bringin’ into my house and causin’ a clutter?”
“Yeah, Mama, this is the stuff that’s gonna become sails for the boat.”
“Oh, y’all know how to sew sails, do you Papa?”
Mark looked at the old man, embarrassed. “I thought you said she agreed to this.”
“Ah, she just givin’ me a hard time.” Franco chuckled and cozied up to his wife, laid a loving arm around her shoulder and spoke kindly in his soft Cajun voice. “Ah, Mama, everybody know that you be the best seamstress in the whole Atchafalaya.”
She rolled her eyes upward and looked at him, crossing her arms in defiance. “Flattery be the devil’s way of tryin’ to get someone to do somethin’. I don’t fall for that.”
“Ah, Mama …”
“Don’t y’all ‘Ah Mama’ me,” she warned. “Every time y’all do that, I end up doin’ a bunch a work.”
“But this is for the kids. Think of it as a christenin’ gift for the baby.” He turned to Mark and winked hard. “By the way, when we gonna do the christenin’?”
It caught Mark off guard, and he stammered to come up with an answer. “Uh, well, we ought to do it right away.”
Franco smiled broadly. “Tonight work for me,” then turning to Marie, “how about you, Mama?”
She huffed, frustrated that she had been deflected from the point she was trying to make about him bringing in a lot of work for her to do. Then finally, “Yeah, kind of sudden but tonight be just fine. We ought to put the word out so people can come.”
“I go get right on it,” Franco said.
“What are we supposed to do?” Mark asked.
“Y’all got the name, that’s all that’s important. I do the rest.”
“Don’t we need a preacher, or something?”
“Papa is the preacher,” Marie said. “He been the preacher for the whole Atchafalaya most of his life.”
Suddenly, it all made sense. It was no wonder Miss Olivia came out on a stormy night to perform her service simply at his request. This elderly Cajun gentleman was the spiritual leader of those who had come here to carve out an existence in this remote swampland.
Life here was hard and dangerous, with none of the services city folk come to rely on. Here there was no ambulance, no fire department, no police, no rescue squad. Here there was only each other.
These people were stoutly independent, yet they came together as a society of friends and neighbors to take care of one another in times of special need. These folks, while strong and self-willed, were also kind, compassionate and helpful to their fellow Atchafalayans. They would rise and stand together in defense of their land, their rights, and each other.
