The Waterman: A Novel of the Chesapeake Bay (33 page)

“I'll get us out of this, Kate.” He looked back at the spotlight. “This problem here. One way or another. Then we'll work on these other things.”

He led her back to the controls, the engine straining as the
Miss Sarah
sliced through the waters of Mobjack Bay, heading east for the mouth. Taking the tiller, Clay looked at the clear sky and took the measure of the bright night. He had easily seen the shining white of the boats moored along the creek and now saw the water shimmering out in the Bay. Even the marsh flats alongshore reflected the moonlight. The darkness wasn't deep enough to shroud them, even without running lights. The stars were faint, but Clay found the Dipper's handle off the horizon to the west. Four or five hours left till dawn. The moon would not set first. Shadowed against the sandbanks, the floating spartina revealed an ebb tide that would bottom sometime after sunrise. He considered these things against where they were as he listened to the second engine drumming. It was coming. And he knew there was no meeting it and surviving.

Pickett's boat ran without lights but periodically shone its spot in their direction. Clay asked Byron to check their fuel. One tank was half empty; the other full. That was good news. He studied their pursuer. He had sized up the boat before. He knew it was fast, slightly faster even than the bateau. It would take a while, though. Pickett would be surprised at the speed of the
Miss Sarah
. But the
Vena Lee
would creep closer. A good hour—maybe an hour and a half, Clay gauged. That's what it would take for them to catch him, to get within a shotgun's range. Somehow he had to keep from being overtaken, at least until Byron and Kate were safe. Or if only he could make it to home waters. Then he knew he could lose them.

They ran the mouth of Mobjack Bay, the blinking red southwest marker approaching close on their port side, the black-and-white nuns way off to their right, the silence of the great estuary around them broken by the hammering engines of the two workboats, one leading the other, and by the sound of the wash off their hulls and of the waves breaking in their wakes. An osprey, startled at the intrusion, left her nest atop the red buoy and circled, screaming, overhead, her shadow large under the moonlight on the water. She came around three times before settling back behind them on her nest. Clay heard her again moments later, upset by the boat behind them. She circled and cried out until finally quieting down in the receding distance of Mobjack Bay. They pushed on. The drum of the bateau's cylinders filled the air as she pushed with all of her power, and behind her the more distant hum echoed over the water. Ahead the pulsing moon glowed over a vast silver plain, the blinking green and red lights marking the horizons in the distance, clear and true, markers of the deeper, safer waters. Clay took note of the slight breeze and kept constant watch of the steadily gaining
Vena Lee.

He asked Byron to open the engine box. Byron knew what he was thinking and found some twine. Opening the lid to the engine box, he tied the carburetor throttle back as tight as possible to maximize the engine's power.

“Byron,” Clay said.

“I'm sorry about this, Clay.”

“Yeah. Well, what's done is done. Forget it. I should've figured it out before. Hell. Who was to know?”

“How would anybody know?”

“You keep a hand check on the engine. Every ten minutes or so. Make sure she isn't running too hot.”

“I will.”

“You got any heavy weights in that tackle box of yours?”

“A few.”

“Weigh those buoys on the crab pots down. I want them as low in the water and hard to spot as we can make 'em.”

Clay turned to Kate. “Look in the drawers up in the cabin—dark pens, markers, anything like that.”

She hesitated, uncertain. Then she went forward and started searching.

Clay thought for a moment and opened the stern hatch. Inside the toolbox he found some black electrical tape. He called to Kate to come back. “Wind the tape around those buoys Byron is weighing down. Make 'em look black.” She didn't ask why, just began to work. Clay wanted to get out where the swells from the south might help, but not too far, and then slow them down with the buoys. The shoreline was his best hope, he thought. The shallows. He drew less water. He'd run for it then.

“Byron.”

“Yeah, Clay.”

“When you're done, unravel each buoy line. When the time comes, I want all the pots over at once.”

“You're gonna tangle her up?”

“She'll probably cut right through most of 'em. Maybe one or two'll slow her down. Or maybe they'll think it's their dope and hunt for it. Course, her propeller may get fouled.”

When Pickett got close, Clay intended to throw the buoys, then to swing back toward shore to set up below the long shoal protruding from Windmill Point. He hoped to lose his pursuers by heading north, across the shallow bar where they couldn't follow. But he was uncertain, disadvantaged without a working depth finder. If that plan failed he'd need more than one trick to keep them at a distance. Pickett's fuel might run out first, but Clay knew he couldn't count on that. If he could just figure out a way to gain a sufficient lead, he'd cross the Bay, run for the shoals around Smith Island, above the Maryland line, and Deal and the Hooper Islands beyond, maybe even the Little Choptank, where he knew
the waters. If he couldn't lose the
Vena Lee,
he'd need to get Kate and Byron off and safe. And himself as well. But he wanted to save his boat too. In Maryland waters along the Eastern Shore, he thought he'd have a better chance. At top speed the
Miss Sarah
ran about fifteen knots. Smith Island was forty-plus miles away, across the wide Bay—with the wind and tide, at least three hours. Deal Island was an hour more.

Out in the Bay proper, the swells rose from the south, pushing the bateau's stern and helping them along. He kept a steady course, and the bateau ran down the crests and held her bow high as she overtook the waves below her. She was lighter and could make better use of the waves and tide than the
Vena Lee
could. On the open water, he set a northerly course. They all sat together, listening and watching—watching the luminous Bay around them, the milky-dark sky above them, the blinking green and red lights in the distance, hearing the drumbeat of the engines, their hunters behind them, their hunters getting closer mile by mile, their spotlight flashing intermittently.

Clay held their course steady so his pursuers would do the same. They were getting discernibly closer now. It wouldn't be long.

He held her steady and used the power of the waves behind and underneath him. Ahead, still a speck in the distance but sparkling bright, he recognized the lights from a tanker coming down from Baltimore.

After a while more, he decided it was time. The
Vena Lee
was close enough, almost too close. Every few minutes they would turn on the spot and isolate the bateau's wake in its beam, then scan the water and turn it off. Clay waited until the spotlight finished searching the water the next time, then put Kate on the tiller and pointed out the course setting, and he and Byron heaved the pots over the stern and port and starboard sides. They threw over thirty
or so, tightly bunched, hoping the lines would snag in the propeller of Pickett's boat. At least, Clay thought, she'll have to slow and navigate through them. The weighted buoys, most darkened with the black tape, settled low in the water and were not easy to see.

He retook the tiller and gunned the throttle, watching the dark water behind him. The white hull of the
Vena Lee
was now perhaps a hundred yards away, the outside range for a shotgun. Soon he heard shouting and cursing. At the bottom of a trough, he turned westerly, heading back toward the shore.

The
Vena Lee
had stopped. He could hear more shouting, the sounds receding behind him. Her spot went on, and a man stood on her bow, partially blocking the light, apparently looking out for what was in the water. After a while her engine started up again. She was moving slowly, not sure where to find safe going. Clay was certain she wasn't fouled. But he had regained the lead he needed to run for the shore.

He asked Byron to get the chart and a flashlight. “Use the light against the stern on the floorboard.” He looked at Kate and then took her into the cabin. “Take the wheel and run us at two hundred ninety degrees.”

She took the steering wheel as he showed her the heading on the fluorescent compass and how to keep to her course.

Clay returned to the stern. On their knees behind the transom, Clay and Byron studied the chart together.

“We're crossing the mouth of the Piankatank, I figure,” Clay said. “I'm thinking about trying to cut the shoal off Windmill Point. We got to draw a foot less than that cannon. Maybe we can lose them there.”

“Maybe. But that guy's no fool with his boat. An' that's miles of shoal. You know these charts can be off. Course, maybe you can feel her through. I can drop the plumb. No help going by that, though.” He pointed at the chart. “Not for tryin' what you got in mind.”

Clay knew the truth in what Byron was saying. It was dangerous. But it might work. He wanted Kate safe. He wanted them all safe too much. “I know,” he answered. “I want to try it, though. I think we can lose them. If we don't . . .” He paused. “I just don't know these waters that well. I don't know where there's firm bottom to walk. And he's sure to have people following onshore over here. Or trying to.” He raised his eyes to the eastern sky over the rail. “This doesn't work, I'd like to sneak out and head for Tangier Sound. But we'd never make it without more of a lead. Still, if we could just get that far, if we could beat him across that broad stretch of Bay . . .”

“What?”

Clay had stopped.

“What?”

“Byron.”

“Yes.”

“One way or another I'll need your help here.” Clay figured Byron sensed what was coming, since he didn't answer. “We're friends?”

Byron turned the light off. “Well, you're sure my friend. I wouldn't blame you if I ain't yours any longer.”

“I need you to do something for me. No questions.”

“What.”

“I need your word on it.”

“Clay. What?”

“Your promise.”

Byron got off his knees and sat back against the coaming.

“If we don't lose them crossing the bar—and like you said, that's tricky enough—then I'm going to find someplace safe and put you and Kate out.”

Byron tried to interrupt, but Clay stopped him with his hand.

“No. No talk. If we can lose them or build a decent lead by trimming the point, we'll turn northeast and cross over. Otherwise,
I'll have to drop you somewhere on this side. My hope is to cross, and head for Tangier Sound. Even if they tried to follow, from a distance, they might run out of fuel first. Or we might find help. A pleasure yacht or something. If we cut across and they're still behind us, I'll put you and Kate out over there. Closer to home. I'm thinking just off Wenona. Off the Deal Island shoal, in three feet of water or so. That's what it'll be when we get there. But it's about a two-hundred-yard walk, or wade. But if we have to do it, there or over here—wherever—you get her ashore safe. That's what I ask. That's what I want from you. Then call Barker and the state marine. If we make Wenona, they'll be close by. Hell, call the Coast Guard too. Get some reinforcements. I'll be running north.”

“Let me take the boat.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I know that area. Better than you. Better'n them. If we can make the marsh, I can outfigure 'em.” He paused again. “Maybe I can lose them. Or at least ground the boat where we can find it later. I thought it over. I've got the better chance. My mind's solid on this.”

“Why across the Bay? Why not above the Rappahannock? Or Potomac?”

“I don't know these waters, Byron. And who knows how many guys they might have following us onshore. I figure we're taking 'em up the western shore now. If we cut across, any of Pickett's men following won't have time to get back down and over the bridge tunnel. That's just a precaution, of course. They may have men on both sides.”

Byron sat there looking at Clay. He didn't say anything for a while. Then he put his head between his knees. “I'm really sorry,” he said.

“Hey. They were after us, Buck. This was coming down. You called it. One way or another. Only one who didn't know was me.”

“The funny thing is, now I don't feel so afraid.” Byron looked calmly at Clay. “Not at all. I'm ready to fight. Do whatever.” He shut his eyes. After a few moments, he said, “I never finished tellin' you what happened. Over there. There was more.”

“No. You didn't.”

Both of them tensed as the engine behind them fired up to high acceleration again. Clay raised his head up. Their pursuers were well behind. He saw that Kate was holding their course well and sat back down

“I will. When this is over. I want to tell you.” Byron reached into his back pocket. He took out a pack of smokes and a pint of Calvert whiskey, mostly gone.

Clay frowned, then shook his head.

“They can see us anyway.” Byron turned the lighter in his hand. “What difference does it make?” Byron's tone betrayed the answer. “Right.” He returned the lighter to his pocket and crumpled up the pack and threw it in a corner. “Funny how you always think there will be time—time to get things right with people, to tell them what you mean.” He squinted at the whiskey in the bottle, took off the top, and turned it upside down over the rail, then threw it into one of the empty wicker baskets.

“We'll have time, Byron.”

Byron looked at the night sky, then smiled. “Shit. It's only been six months. Fuckin' excitin' enough, ain't it?”