Code name, p.26
Code Name, page 26
In such a society, one of the key individuals is a spiritual leader to help steer the community toward higher planes. Franco was exactly the right person to fulfill the spiritual needs of this people. He was humble, both as to temporal matters and in personality. He was quiet, slow to anger, had a wonderful sense of humor and a great understanding of humanity. He was not prone to condemnation of others, and had a deep and abiding faith in God’s ability to watch over His creation without interfering with His children’s progress.
“There’s a purpose to life,” Franco had said, “and it ain’t just to die with the most stuff. The purpose of life be to learn to love each other more than we love ourselves. Live peaceably, share what we know, learn what is good, make others glad they met you – that be a life well lived.”
Franco left the house and was gone an hour. When he returned, he announced that the christening would take place at nine o’clock that evening out in the yard. In the hour that he was gone, Franco had contacted only two families. They each contacted two, who each contacted two more, and so on. It was a remarkably efficient version of a backwoods calling tree.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
At nine o’clock Mark and Laura looked out at the yard filled with a surprising number of families and individuals, all part of Franco’s congregation. They never suspected that so many people lived in these woods, but here they were, all dressed in their best.
Most of the men wore beards. All looked rough, but were clean and groomed for a church meeting. The women wore simple dresses; the children were scrubbed and combed. Without a sound, they had gathered, and there they stood, reverently waiting for Franco to step out on the porch and commence the ceremony.
A few minutes after nine, Franco emerged from the bedroom, wearing a white long-sleeved shirt and a simple black tie. His hair was combed and his countenance shone, as if heaven gave its approval of this man and this occasion. He looked every bit a preacher – sober, serious, wise. The transformation was amazing, and Mark was speechless as the preacher strode through the living room.
Franco stepped through the screen door, and the crowd began to applaud softly. He raised a hand and waved to his people. It was his way of thanking them for coming, and to silence the clapping.
“Thank y’all for leavin’ the important work of your lives to join with us here this evenin’ for the purpose of christenin’ a new baby that was sent by God to be born in this very house.”
He motioned for Mark and Laura to bring Carli Marie out on the porch. Laura carried the infant, and Mark steadied her with an arm around her shoulder. The congregation applauded, but softly so as not to startle the baby. Broad smiles covered every face in the crowd. The women busily whispered to each other, nodding and quietly celebrating the event. Children grinned, and the men showed their friendship as white teeth gleamed through dark beards. Instantly, Mark and Laura felt as though they were among friends.
“Mark and Laura Benton, husband and wife, brought into this world one of God’s children, sent here to learn to live accordin’ to the gospel.”
“Amen,” went up quietly from the gathering.
The preacher stretched his arms wide above his head. “We be here this evenin’, under a canopy of God’s own makin’ …”
“Amen.”
“… to give this baby a name and a blessin’, accordin’ to the wishes of the parents, who be good Christian people.”
“Hallelujah,” the crowd chanted.
The preacher took the baby and held her high so the congregation could see. Laura felt a bit uneasy about someone taking her baby from her like that, but Mark hugged her closer as if to say that everything was okay.
“Accordin’ to the wishes of the parents, the name by which this baby will be known for all the days she walk through life will be Carli Marie Benton.”
As he said the name, Marie let out a startled little cry of joy. She didn’t know until that moment that her name would be part of the name to be carried by this new child. The crowd responded with a cheer, and that made Marie blush like a new bride.
“Ahem …” the preacher cleared his throat to interrupt the jubilation, “… we not finished here yet,” he gently scolded the congregation. “Carli Marie Benton,” he intoned, “may y’all be blessed with the very choicest blessin’s that God can give to any of His children. Live long, live good, carry your parents’ name with honor, ’cause I know they be honorable people. Amen.”
“Amen,” the crowd repeated.
The preacher handed Carli Marie back to Laura. “Thank you,” she whispered to Franco.
“No … thank you,” he whispered back. “This be one very special day in my short life.”
“And now,” Franco raised his voice, “let the party begin.”
A shout went up from the crowd, and almost magically tables and chairs appeared from behind the house and from the woods. These good people had not only walked a great distance, but had hauled heavy tables and chairs from their homes to Franco’s yard for the celebration. No sooner had the tables been set up and surrounded by chairs, than food appeared. The women had rustled together what they could, and a Cajun potluck dinner was spread.
Laura could hardly believe her eyes, and she was moved to tears by all the hard work and friendship that was shown for her family by perfect strangers.
Women and children surrounded her, all wanting a closer look at Carli Marie. The young ones were like children everywhere, poking and tickling the baby, trying to stir a smile from the infant. The women wanted to know all about Laura, where she was from, how she had come to the Atchafalaya – none of which Laura revealed in honesty.
She made up a story about the car running out of gas after she and her husband had gotten off onto a wrong road during the storm, and the baby coming unexpectedly early, and that they would be leaving in a few days to continue their journey to Texas.
Off to the side, Laura noticed Miss Olivia, watching and listening from a distance, keeping mostly to herself. Something in Miss Olivia’s expression made Laura think that the speechless woman did not believe the story. Maybe something had been said about their real history during the delivery. Maybe Miss Olivia simply sensed something.
In her heart, Laura was sorry for the falsehood, but didn’t know what else to do. The truth was dangerous, and she didn’t want to place anyone at risk. This was a small and hidden community, but things have a way of leaking out in the most unexpected ways – a word here, a glance there.
If Mark and Laura were still being followed, and if the trail were tracked to this place, all of these people would be hunted down and interrogated. One slip could be fatal.
Unknown to Mark and Laura, Franco and Marie, or any of the people now dancing in the warm evening light to the rhythmic cry of a Cajun fiddle, a small red light pulsated beneath the dashboard of the disabled car less than a quarter mile from the celebration.
Two hundred miles away, another car was slowly fighting its way through the flood-ravaged streets of south-central Mississippi. On the front seat was a box with a small red light that pulsated with steady regularity, and a dial that showed increasing strength as the car continued southwest toward Louisiana.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Pages 43–51, notebook #3
By the dim glow of an oil lamp in the early morning hours, Mark sat alone at the table and sketched a pattern for the mainsail and jib. There would be no battens in this sail, no roach to complicate the pattern. But he did need a set of reef points sewn into the main so he could shorten canvas when the wind became too powerful.
The jib was a simple triangle with heavy canvas patches sewn at tack, clew and head for strength. Without a machine, sewing the seams and patches was a tough job. Marie had nothing but needle, thread and thimble to work with. Her hands would ache and bleed before the sails were finished.
An orange sky signaled the arrival of dawn and, as Mark blew out the oil lamp, Marie came to the table to see his drawing. Franco was still snoring jubilantly on the couch. Laura lay comfortably in bed nursing Carli. From his position at the table, Mark could see them both, each enjoying the morning wrapped in a soft blanket of peace and safety. It was a scene he wanted to engrave on his memory because he knew the time for such serenity would soon end.
In a whisper, he explained to Marie how the canvas must be stitched. She quietly nodded. For the next little while, they talked about specific measurements, how the cringles must to be sewn into the cloth, how the reinforcement patches should be installed. Then she got up, split some kindling, started a fire and began working on breakfast.
“Two days,” she said, as she left the table. “I can have the sails done in two days, but only if y’all help. We make it like a quiltin’ bee. We all take a corner, you and Laura and me. Franco would probably kill himself with one a these big needles.” She laughed.
“We can let him work on making the gaff,” Mark suggested.
“Now there’s a fine idea.”
All that day and all the next, Marie, Laura and Mark cut and sewed canvas until their fingers were blistered and raw, their hands cramped, their eyesight fading.
Franco came up with a stout section of cypress that was straight enough, long enough and strong enough to replace the damaged spruce gaff. Using a drawknife, the old man went to work shaping the eight-foot staff that would hold up the top of the sail.
As Marie had said, in two days time the sails were finished. Franco whittled his name on the cypress gaff and presented it to Mark. “I autograph it for y’all,” the old man said sheepishly. “It be a one of a kind.”
Mark took the spar and eyeballed it from end to end. It was arrow straight and smooth. He and Franco loaded the sails over their shoulders and, with gaff in hand, headed down the path toward the boat.
Already the sun was settling into a heavy haze. Evening was nigh, but at this season the sky remained light for a couple more hours. They could rig up the gaff, bend on the sails and see how she looked dressed in new clothes.
The two men worked until dark, and by the time they finished, the boat was ready to sail – except for the fact that it was still sitting high and dry on the beach.
“Tomorrow we float her,” Franco promised.
“You have a plan in mind?”
“Sure do! We get a few of the men down here then we just pick her up and set her down in the water,” he explained with childlike simplicity. “Good plan, eh?”
A light offshore breeze stirred the air. In the dim evening light, Mark studied the lay of the water, trying to memorize what was before him in case he had to leave under the cover of darkness.
He talked himself through the plan. “Once the boat’s in the water, we’ll head west for perhaps ten minutes … just long enough to clear the lip of the inlet.”
He pivoted to the left. “Then we go southeast for a day and a half – got to avoid a bunch of small islands – then due south into the Gulf.”
According to his plan, once they left the beach, a week would pass before they saw land again. If they were lucky, really lucky, the land would be Xulakan.
Mark did not try to fool himself about how difficult it would be to navigate to the tiny island. But there was little choice – it was either to take this risk or hike to town for some gas, then retrace their steps to the highway and drive through Texas, cross the border into Mexico and work their way down to Yucatan. From there they still had to find a way to the island. And every step of the way there could be NIA operatives hunting them.
The more he thought about it, the more convinced he was that sailing from here was the best plan. Going by boat from this beach, they had the best chance of vanishing without being seen by anyone. At worst, he figured, they might miss Xulakan and run into the Yucatan Peninsula. Then he would have to figure out where they were in relation to the island and set sail again.
No, he corrected his thought; that was not the worst. The worst would be either sinking outright, or a dismasting that left them helpless in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico, slowly dying under a withering sun without water or shelter or food. A dismasting would result in a slow and agonizing death. Sinking would be quick, or bullets fired by his enemies.
There was no good way out of this. He knew they eventually had to make a run for it in this little boat, across a wide and sometimes dangerous sea, risking their lives to save their lives. To do less invited a sure death.
“Mama will have supper on,” Franco said as they finished their work.
On the way back to the cabin they passed the car once again.
“Just a second,” Mark said, “I want to grab the Louisiana road map.”
He opened the door, slipped into the seat and reached across to open the glove compartment. That was when he saw the pulsating glow of the red light coming from below the dashboard. He jumped back as if he had been struck by a snake.
Franco saw that his young friend had been startled by something. “What is it?”
Mark turned himself upside down in the seat so he could look under the dash. “It’s a tracking device,” he blurted. “Franco, how fast can you get a few men together to help lift the boat?”
“I go do it right now.” Without further question he disappeared up the trail. Over his shoulder he yelled, “We meet at the house.” Then he was gone.
Mark reached up and grabbed the wires leading from the light to a small box, and ripped the box loose from another set of wires. The light died. He sat in darkness, his mind racing. With a tracking device signaling the car’s location, his guess was that NIA would have found the vehicle before now, except that Hurricane Carli had slowed their pursuit. And now that the storm had abated, somewhere out there, maybe not very far away, another black Ford sedan was picking its way across southern Louisiana, relentlessly following the signal.
There was no time to lose. They leave tonight.
Mark raced to the cabin to alert Laura. Franco had stopped there briefly on his way to round up some men to help launch the boat, so the women were already busy preparing things for the voyage. A bundle of food items had been wrapped in some extra canvas, two jugs of water, and a second bundle contained things Franco thought would be useful. There was no time to inspect the packages now.
“What did Franco tell you?” Mark asked.
“That you found a tracking device in the car,” Laura said breathlessly as she wrapped the baby in Marie’s tablecloth.
“Yeah, it was probably set to activate when the radio was turned on or something.”
Just then, voices came from the porch and Mark turned to see a dozen men step out of the dark, led by Franco.
“Thank you for coming,” Mark said. “We have no time to lose.” Turning to Laura, he asked, “Are you ready?”
She nodded, and Mark took the baby in his arms. Two of the men stepped forward and picked up the canvas-wrapped bundles and jugs and then Franco led the way out the door and into the night. Laura paused and threw her arms around Marie. “Thank you. We will never forget your kindness.”
Tears filled the old woman’s eyes. “We thank you. Y’all brought this house a lot of joy in the last few days. God go before you to smooth out the waves and lead you to your new home.”
She hugged Laura then gently pressed her toward the door. “I know y’all got to go now. Best be on the way.”
As if the heavens knew what was coming, a black shroud covered the Atchafalaya. A low blanket of clouds blinded the sky from any hint of moon or stars. Through the lightless gloom, the team of men hurried toward the far beach, followed by Laura and Marie.
In the darkness, it took nearly half an hour to reach the boat. The bundles were carefully laid inside, and with barely a word of instruction from Franco, the men took positions around the hull and prepared to lift on his command. A dozen strong men strained under the weight, each needing to lift nearly his own weight to free the boat.
“Lift,” Franco encouraged.
The men bent their legs and backs and grunted. The boat didn’t budge.
“Again,” Franco called.
In unison the men strained against the weight. This time, she moved a little, but not much.
“The keel’s stuck in the sand,” Mark called out to no one in particular. He handed the baby to Laura and found a spot between two sweaty giants, then pressed his shoulder to the hull.
Franco moved in behind the rudder, pressed his shoulder against the transom and called once more, “Heave, you fine Christian gentlemen! And if y’all feel the urge to speak a few Cajun words to this boat, I’ll understand and won’t hold none of it against you come next Sunday. Heave!”
As a body, fourteen men pressed their hands and shoulders to the hull with fingers splayed and arms rippling under the tension. Not a breath could be heard, as they all held their air in locked lungs and pushed with quivering legs. The men groaned as their held breaths were finally released and replaced with fresh air.
The men pushed, heaved out their breaths and inhaled mightily then pushed again. Mark sensed that they would not give up this time. They’d push and lift until either the boat moved or they all began bleeding from their eyeballs because of the strain.
Fine men, these, Mark thought, to sacrifice so much for us. Where could such men be found in cities?
Reluctantly the sand released its grip on the keel, almost as if the beach were yielding some precious possession against its will. Suddenly the load was lighter.
“There we go men, good job,” Franco panted. “Long as we have her up, let’s point her out to sea,” the old man gasped.
With stumbling steps, the men pivoted the bow toward the water and carried the vessel down the slope of the beach, the keel tracing a thin line on the sand. Into the warm water of the bay they walked, until the lead men were nearly neck deep and the bow was afloat.
