Assateague Rum Runners
Nelson Lynch
Copyright 2011
Published by Hogskull Press at Smashwords
ISBN 978-1-4660-6887-2
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Cover: Microsoft Clip Art
He heard the schooner’s captain yelled for the crew to haul up the anchor and set a course toward the southeast before he had finished stowing the last case of scotch whiskey on top of the rum. His partner shifted the transmission into forward and gently increased gas to the engine. He was surprised at how rough and windy it was. In the thirty minutes it had taken to load the skiff, the wind speed had doubled and somehow the wave height had tripled. The Model-A engine labored and blew black smoke from the pump pipe that served as an exhaust as it slid down the backside of a wave. Keeping both hands tightly on the gunnel, he turned and looked for the schooner. A large wave hindered his view letting him see only the very top of the main mast. He jerked his head back to the bow looking for the beach. The wave in front made it impossible to even see the tops of the pine trees that were on the other side of the sand dunes. The rear wave passed under the skiff on its way to the beach. For the few seconds the skiff was on the wave’s crest. He had time to see the small group of people standing at edge of the sea. Then the skiff slid off of the crest on to the rear side of the wave.
His partner turned around, pointed to the stern and gunned the engine. He turned slightly and glanced out of the corner of his eye. A huge wave was approaching, its top glistening with spray from the northeast wind. Time slowed down as the small skiff went from the bottom of the trough to the beginning of the wave. He noticed a small flock of Mother Carey’s Chickens skittering along the trough and one lone porpoise jumping out of the wave with no concern for the weather.
In a few heartbeats, their speed went from near zero to twenty miles per hour as the wave carried them toward the shore. The smoke disappeared as the engine chugged along in relative ease. Panicking slightly, he picked up the old life preserver that was under his feet. It’s tatters fluttered in the wind and the last piece of cork fell overboard as he attempted to put it on. Disgusted and apprehensive he threw the dry-rotten vest over the side. The wind whistled and spray flew as the boat sped toward the beach. At the same it inched backward up the front side of the wave.
Suddenly the engine revved up, the skiff began to vibrate and he saw the men on the beach. I took him a second to realize they were on the crest and the propeller was spinning in the air. He caught another glimpse of the men as the skiff slid off of the backside of the wave and entered another trough. Their speed decreased to near zero and the waves sheltered them from the wind. They had moved a lot closer to shore, maybe now only two hundred yards away.
He glanced at the stern when he saw his partner giving him a sickly grin. His heart missed a beat looking at a monster wave approaching. His mind brought old fisherman’s tales of the huge “third wave” or the “Great Seven Sister’s Waves.” The wave picked the skiff up like a cork and flung them toward shore. The two men and their cargo of whiskey were being carried nose down at a fort-five degree angle at a frighting speed toward the waiting men. In a long second the wave began to break and the skiff was in the curl of the wave. White foam and salt water were everywhere. Water poured down the exhaust pipe and over the engine. The motor expelled a puff of white smoke and died. The roar of the crashing wave and the quietness of the dead engine echoed in his head. The frothing surf carried the half-sunk skiff farther toward the shore. They sat in the skiff with water up to their knees as the surf stopped and then retreated carrying them back out. Another wall of surf pushed them in again putting another two inches of water around the whiskey. His partner yelled something in the roaring surf and jumped overboard with a rope. He hesitated a moment, then grabbed a rope and jumped just as another wave went by the floundering skiff. The wave threw him to the bottom, twisted him about and ground his body against the abrasive sandy bottom. Cold ocean water filled his gum boots and soaked his clothing in a heartbeat. A thousand scenes, all in vivid colors flashed in his mind as he tightened his grip on the rope.
The current swirled him around, looping the rope around his wrist tighter. He opened his eyes and saw the bottom. It was perfectly clear and clean with grains of sand being washed toward shore. He pushed hard against the sand, turned on his back and looked toward the surface. The skiff, his partner, the shore and the whisky sailed through his mind in that order in a blink of time. Tough boat. She’s still floating even if she does have two foot of water in her. Where in the hell is he? He’s probably only five feet away and I can’t see that far. The shore is this way. The same way these grains of sand are going. I need a shot of rum right now. A tight lipped smile formed for an instant while he was still under the water. They better have some ready when we get to the beach.
Somehow his feet touched the bottom while he was in a crouched position. Reflex action propelled him toward the surface. He cleared the water to his waist. He exhaled and inhaled. Just like a damn whale. If I had jumped harder I would have made it clear to shore. He swiveled his head around in seemingly slow motion. Where in the hell is he? I see his rope. He must be at the bitter end. Inwardly he smiled at is joke. Damn, water is nearly up to the spark plugs. We can’t let water run down the exhaust pipe and ruin the engine. Why in the hell are they standing still? Are they blind? Damn fools, they’re going to let us drown. These thoughts flashed by even before he reached the apex of his jump. He yelled ‘help’ ten times in his mind while he managed to croak one feeble Help before sliding back beneath the surface.
The current was still going in, but its velocity had been cut in half. As soon as his feet hit the bottom, he started walking with the current. He gained extra strength when he realized he was walking uphill. Hotdog, I’m on the sandbar. Ahead of him the skiff twisted and snatched on the rope. He lost his balance and was drug inward along the sandy bottom for ten yards. He felt the wave slow and nearly stop as he got his feet in position. He sprung to the surface. Exhilaration and relief flooded through his body when he realized the water was only hip-deep. He felt a pang of warmth in the frigid water. His partner was wading furiously toward shore with his rope wrapped around his wrist. Wait for me, dammit! I don’t want to get swept back out by the undertow. He began running and jumping toward shore, waving his free hand at the ten or more men standing at the edge of the water. The current stopped and began to recede, increasing in speed every second. He braced himself as the current carried the skiff back toward the breakers.
The skiff drifted by him toward the storming ocean as the water receded. He debated whether to untangle the rope from his wrist as the boat jerked him from his feet and drug him back into deeper water. No, hang on to the rope. The skiff will eventually wash up on the beach here. I’d drown and wash up ten miles from here. Another giant wave had crested and broke sending a six foot high wall of frothing toward the beach. Luckily the two men were acting as sea anchors and keeping the skiff’s bow pointed toward shore. If the skiff ever got side-to the wave it would capsize.
The surf swept by, covering him completely with half water half foam. A second later the skiff snatched him toward shore. He opened his eyes, looking for the bottom. The pounding wave pushed him deeper, his chin scraped a narrow trench in the sand for a few yards. His lungs were burning and his eyes seem to be bulging. The current slowed and he realized he was back on the sandbar. His feet hit the bottom and he jumped with all his strength.
He looked around while still in the air. His partner was trying to walk behind the skiff. The men on the beach were still in the same position. None had made any attempt to wade out to him and his partner. He yelled and waved with his free arm. He fell back, got to his feet and began walking and jumping toward shore.
He walked past the skiff, his gumboots spilling out water. I’m closer than the last time, the water is shallower. He looked to his left and saw his partner only five feet away struggling toward shore. He tried to yell, but the wind smothered any sound his chattering teeth and burning lungs could produce. The water reached the men on the beach and began running back out. He started walking downhill and realized he was in the trough between the sandbar and shore. The skiff drifted back with the current and stopped between the two men. With water up to his neck he realized the skiff had lodged on the sandbar. He grabbed the side and pulled his head up level with the gunnel. In a flash he saw his partner on the other side trying to smile, six inches of the exhaust pipe above water and the whisky completely covered.
An eon of time went by before another frothy wave came by. It lifted the skiff slightly and pushed it off of the sandbar. The boat sank a few inches so that only the bow, stern and exhaust pipe were out of the water. His feet dangled a few feet from the bottom. His body was numb from the frigid water. Numb enough that he knew he could freeze to death before he drowned. He glanced toward the shore and saw a man running into the surf with a grapple type anchor. The man threw the anchor over the bow and waved for the men on the beach to pull.
He felt his feet dragging the bottom. He tried to stand. His knees gave way and he fell face down in the receding surf. He positioned his knees on the bottom and raised his head for air. Someone was trying to lift him to his feet. He caught the word ‘hand’ and ‘let go dammit’. He looked at his hand clenched on the gunnel. With a tiny bit of his precious energy left, he released the gunnel finger by finger. His eyes filmed over as he tried to recognize who was saving him.
He moved his head hoping to get the smoke out of his eyes. His nose was running and sand was in his mouth. He wiped his eyes and then his nose before looking to see what he was wiping with.
The sleeve and glove was coated with fish scales with traces of blood and fish intestines. The one glance told him the coat and gloves belonged to John Henry. He rolled over and got to his knees. His partner was still laying out flat of his back on the other side of the fire. Men were stacking the whisky cases onto three horse carts ready to be taken to the other side of the island. Another man was bailing out the skiff as the rum was being removed.
“I thought we were going to lose you two guys.” He twisted around to see John Henry walking to the fire. “Lucky that the skiff got caught on the sandbar and didn’t go back out again. That trough is probably ten feet deep. We couldn’t have got through it and you guys were about one minute from freezing to death.”
My partner opened his eyes and raised up on one elbow. “How about a drink? I’m freezing.”
John Henry grinned and pulled a fifth of rum from his hunting coat. He handed it to my partner. “Good stuff. Some of the best Cuba makes.”
My partner swallowed twice, his adam’s apple bobbing up and down. He shook his shoulders, managed a weak grin and handed the bottle to me. I took a small swallow and felt the warmth flowing downward. I nodded at the two men and tipped the bottle. This time I took two huge slugs. The heat stretched to my toes and I felt imaginary sweat forming on my forehead. John Henry reached down and took the bottle from my shaking hand.
“Enough, you guys have to go back to Ocean City.” He pointed to an empty horse cart. A brown mule stood between the shafts with its head down. “We don’t need that cart anymore. We have all the whisky but these three loads on the other side. When this weather calms down, we’ll move the booze to the mainland.” He glanced at the men beginning to pull the empty skiff higher up on the beach. “Sometime next week we’ll help you get you skiff in the water and back to Ocean City.” He started to leave but turned back. “I’ll be by in two or three days to pay you guys.” He turned away and walked to the first horse cart.
The next morning he sipped on the hot coffee at the kitchen table. Even with an extra sweater on, he kept shivering in the warm room. He was taking a second sip when someone started knocking hard on the kitchen door. His partner stepped in before his wife could open the door.
“Did’ji hear the news? The revenuers were waiting for them on the mainland. The whisky been seized and everybody is in the county jail.”
Baghdad Café
The sound of the file was not loud, but John could definitely pick it out from the low general noise in the Café. The man had a slow rhythm as he used both arms to move the file over the blade. Each time the file was moved half its width down the blade. Two C-clamps held the blade secure across the edge of a table. A smiling boy holding a can of WD-40 seemed hypnotized by the repetitive movements.
The man reached the end and loosened the C-clamps. He lifted the sword and twisted it in the lamplight inspecting all sides.
For a few seconds the sword was flat to John’s vision. It was over three feet long with a brass handle. The blade curved backwards and it became thicker along its edge until at the end it was shaped like a small meat cleaver. He kept his eyes on the sword and spoke in a low voice to his companion. “It is really a nice looking weapon. Is it a scimitar? How much is it worth? I’ve only seen a few of them in museums.”
His companion nodded. “It is a true scimitar. It’s been in his family for ten generations.” His companion paused as the man tried to cut a sheet of paper with the blade. “Ah, did you see that? He has a dull spot toward the end of the blade. It tore the paper instead of cutting.”
“Do you think he would sell it? It would bring a nice price on ebay.”
A helicopter flew slowly over the café. A five second burst from its gatling gun sent down a hundred rounds somewhere on the outside road.
The man reached into a bag on the floor and placed a whetstone on the table. He nodded at the boy. The boy gazed around the room. He stopped at John’s table before he squirted a small amount of oil on the whetstone. The man began methodically and gently moving the dull stretch across the whetstone.
His companion waited a few more seconds before answering John. “No, it’s not for sale. The young boy will be the next owner.” He stared at the blade going across the whetstone.
John slowly scanned the coffee café. The patrons, all men, whispered occasionally and kept their eyes on the scimitar. His companion was swaying in unison with the motion of the blade on the whetstone. He tugged on his companion’s sleeve. “Why is everyone watching him? Why is he sharpening his scimitar in a public coffee café?”
“There is to be a public execution today. His position as public executioner has also been in his family for ten generations. His son automatically becomes the public executioner when the man retires.”
John eased back sipping on the strong coffee. “I thought public beheading was outlawed here in Baghdad and all of Iraq for that matter.”
His companion and everyone in the café watched the man loosen the C-clamps. The man turned it so light flickered on its silvery blade. The boy held a sheet of writing paper stretched between his hands. The man drew the blade down slowly cleanly cutting the paper. At the very end, a snag or invisible nick tore the paper. A low chorus of ah’s came from the patrons. The man ran his thumb gently over that area of the blade. He turned slowly toward the people and shook his head. The boy turned the whetstone to the fine-grit side and squirted a few drops of oil. The man picked up the whetstone and began sliding the fine grit side slowly along the end of the blade.
His companion waited until the man had made four or five passes along the blade before answering. “It is against the old law. Saddam forbid it except when he or his courts ordered it. Now Saddam is gone and there is chaos everywhere.” He paused as a 50-caliber machine gun opened up a few hundred meters away.
“There’s an Abrams tank nearby.” John strained to hear the diesel engine. “I wonder what it’s doing out here?”
“No matter.” His companion glanced at the door, a worried look forming momentarily and then at the whetstone being laid on the table.
All whispering stopped as the man held the sword high and began a gentle slow downward motion against the paper. The scimitar cut through without the slightest snag. Another burst came from the 50 caliber. The sound of the diesel engine became louder. The man stood, nodded, smiled in the direction of John’s table. He and the boy walked out the back door into the alley.
His companion smiled widely. “It is time for us to go outside. We don’t want to keep him waiting, do we?” A 30-caliber machine gun opened up followed by a short burst from an automatic rifle. The diesel engine was revving down.
“I really don’t want to go outside.”
“Come! We don’t have time to waste.” The diesel was just outside running at a fast idle. A burst of 50-caliber bullets erupted into the room at ceiling level. The front door flew open, six feet of the 120mm cannon was in the room. The back door opened. Four marines jumped in, their 402 rifles pointed around the room.
John wiped his neck. “You guys were a little slow in getting here.”
Ancient Love
My story starts in Egypt. I was deciphering the hieroglyphs on the walls on a 5000-year-old tomb just off the Valley of the Kings. I was having trouble with women. One woman, a minor wife of a scribe, either had ten other husbands, was running a house of ill repute or worked as a temple maiden. The painters had her as a dark skinned, sloe-eyed beauty with long golden earrings. Her sarcophagus was in the next room with a twelve-hundred pound granite lid. Needless to say, I hadn’t removed the lid.
My other trouble was Nancy, a tanned skinned, dark-eyed unattractive woman with cheap Egyptian scarab earrings made in China. She thought they were thousands of years old from the Ramses dynasties. She is on loan to me from another dig. I’m sure they wanted to get rid of her. She can’t tell a cartouche of Cleopatra from graffiti. I was on my hands and knees cleaning a cartouche. It was either husband or patron, I wasn’t sure which, when Nancy leaned close to me.
“Who is she? Do you think she is still in her sarcophagus? What’s her husband’s name? What’s that bird mean? What’s in those vases?”
She used her whiskbroom to flick 5000-year-old dust my way. I coughed slightly hoping there were no ancient viruses lying around. “I don’t know her name. She may not have been married.” I saw no need to answer all her questions. “We’ll find everything out in due time.” She is driving me insane. She is leaning on me so hard I have to lean against her to keep from falling over.
“Does she love her husband?” She pointed at a row of cartouches. “Are these love words?”
I glanced at the cartouches. I had deciphered them last week. “No, not love words. They are either her husbands or patrons who enjoyed her favors.”
“What do you mean? Enjoyed her favors?”
What is wrong with this woman? Why is she so close? “What I mean is that this woman may have entertained the high priests of the temple.” Will she understand that?
“Entertain? She was a singer or dancer?”
She is both dense and bad looking. No wonder the dig loaned her out. I kept working on the line of cartouches. A high priest was describing how irresistible she was. Her eyes were like the moon. Her lips like the sun at sunset. Her body was like a young gazelle. Her odor drove him crazy from ten feet away. “She was a temple maiden.” I hesitated a moment to see if she understood. She didn’t. “In other words, she was the temple prostitute. Her job was to keep the priests happy.” She stood and moved a few meters away from me. I think I finally got through to her.
“A prostitute. I don’t believe it.” She walked to another row of cartouches. “How did she do it?” She paused a moment. “I mean how did she keep the men happy?”
I think she understands now. I stood to give my knees a break. I pointed to a line of cartouches I finished before she arrived. “Those cartouches describe how she prepared herself. The different oils she used, the facial rouges, eye shadows and the like. She used a full range of cosmetics and drugs to enhance her beauty.” I stretched and walked a bit to restore my circulation. She walked to the wall where I had pointed.
“What drugs? I didn’t know they had drugs back then. What do these cartouches say?”
I walked over to the wall. I may as well humor her and take a break. I’ve been working too hard. “These three describe the body oils she used. The next describe where the oils came from and how they were mixed. This one is how her eye shadow was made. Here is her hair oil. All are mixtures of animal and plant oils with some solid matter mixed in.” That should satisfy her. She should have had at least five college courses on reading ancient Egyptians hieroglyphs before she’s allowed to participate in a dig. Why is she touching that cartouche?
“What does this one say? It seems to be shaped like a vase.”
I wonder if she will understand. “It and the next two describe the aphrodisiacs she used to entice the men. The first is for older men. The second is for younger men and the third is for the hard to entice men. The main ingredients are ground beetles, crocodile skin and various oils. The stuff is in the three vases at the foot of her sarcophagus.” That ought to keep her feeble mind busy for a while. It’s getting late. I’ve got to finish this cartouche.
There, I’m finished for today. Where is she? It’s time to leave. There she is. She’s dirty looking. What has she smeared on her body? She must have fallen in a dust pile. Let me stand up and look at her better.
Nancy walked toward him and held out her hand.
Her eyes are so beautiful. She smells like the roses from the pharaoh’s private garden. She is so intelligent. How could I ever survive without her? “Darling, I love you so. Don’t ever leave me.”
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