Mark Lee - The Canal House

Daniel smiled and waved good-bye. A little boy started to fall off the tailgate of the truck and Julia reached forward to catch him. When I looked back at the bonfire I couldn’t see Daniel anymore.

THE WALK BACK to Dili is not a coherent memory. None of the refugees spoke and the noise from the truck seemed more real than our bodies. If the truck had stopped, if the engine had failed, our group might have dissolved into the darkness that surrounded us.

I remember the first bridge and the second bridge, the tidal flat and the dark mounds of the salt ovens. At some time during the journey I picked up a little girl and started carrying her. Her body was tense and rigid; she clung to my shirt with both hands. Eventually she went to sleep and I slung her over my shoulder like a sack of rice.

Julia seemed to be everywhere, her worried face moving in and out of the shadows. “Everyone’s so tired,” she whispered. “I don’t know if we can make it.” And then she would hurry over to encourage someone who had stopped walking. More bodies were loaded into the back of the pickup. People sat on the roof of the truck cab with their legs on the windshield and others lay facedown on the hood. The truck looked like a moving sculpture of limp bodies; there was so much weight that the tires flattened and squeaked as they rolled across the asphalt.

We lost eight refugees during the journey. I still don’t know if they died or if they lay down in a road ditch and went to sleep. The night seemed to go on forever, but when we stopped to place one more body onto the truck I noticed that most of the stars had vanished. The sky had turned a dark purple and a faint strip of light glowed on the horizon. Still holding the little girl on my shoulder, I maneuvered the camera out of my bag, stepped across the road, and took three quick photographs of our weary procession.

We reached the section of road close to the ocean and I could hear the waves falling on shore. The old man driving the truck stuck his arm out the side window. “Acabou a gasolina,” he said in Portuguese. Out of gas. The needle had fallen well below the last line on the gauge, but the engine didn’t stop and we kept going. I don’t know if a deceptive fuel tank rivals the loaves and the fishes, but it felt miraculous at that moment. We kept walking, a little faster now, and Venus appeared—a clear point of light in the sky.

We stumbled past a thicket of bamboo, came over a hill, and saw two Australian armored personnel carriers parked in the middle of the road. A few soldiers jumped down and stood there with their rifles, but they didn’t approach us. We probably would have marched the last four miles into Dili if the old man hadn’t stopped the truck and switched off the engine. The refugees sat down in the middle of the road. An old woman appeared and took the little girl from me as the soldiers approached Julia.

“I’m Dr. Julia Cadell. These people are from the town of Liquica.”

“That’s a bit of a distance,” a sergeant said. “You walk all the way here?”

“Yes. And they can’t go any farther.” Julia’s voice was raspy, but she spoke with a brisk, formal manner. “I want you to get on your radio and contact the UN medical team out at the airport. Tell them that you have over three hundred fifty refugees and they need to come here with food, water, medical care, and transport.”

“No worries, ma’am. We can do that.”

“Two wounded soldiers are on the truck. Load them onto an APC and we’ll get them into Dili right away.”

They carefully lifted Corporal Mainla out of the pickup and placed him inside the armored personnel carrier. Private Rai sat on the floor next to his friend as we roared down the road to the Interfet camp.

Some tents had been set up as a hospital. An army medical team ran out with a stretcher and the wounded soldiers were taken away. It took over an hour to find the Australian colonel who was the commanding officer at the camp. Julia explained the situation in Liquica, warning him not to send troops into the town until the militia was gone.

It was about eight o’clock in the morning when we left the camp with some Portuguese soldiers on their way into Dili. They dropped us off at the Governor’s Office and we hurried to the wharf. Julia was exhausted, but she spoke quickly. Make a deal with Vanderhouten. Yes. That was our first objective. Did a ship’s engine need to be warmed up? Did I know anything about engines? She had a car when she was a medical student that had to be warmed up in the morning. But it was cold in England and warm in East Timor. Did that make a difference? It must make a difference. Can’t waste time for an engine.

She took a took a deep breath and squeezed my hand. “Sorry, Nicky. I’m talking nonsense, aren’t I?”

“It’s okay. We’re both tired.”

“We’ve got nine or ten hours to get down the coast to Liquica.”

We climbed up the Seria ’s gangplank and found Richard and Billy eating breakfast near the stern. Julia spoke to both of them in a flurry of words, describing the situation and insisting that the ship leave as soon as possible. “Of course,” Richard said. “We’ll do everything we can.” Then he took two steps back and let Billy get the details.

“They’ll give up their weapons,” Julia said. “Daniel worked out a deal. Tell them it’s safe, Nicky. We just have to get there as soon as possible.”

We walked up the deck to the wheelhouse where Captain Vanderhouten stood drinking coffee. The captain’s face formed a sympathetic mask while Julia and I described the problem. Vanderhouten nodded and mentioned the Seria ’s owners, a mysterious group of men who had warned him not to risk their property in dangerous activities.

“If it was up to me, I’d go right away,” he said. “But of course I have a responsibility to my shareholders.”

“What shareholders?” asked Julia. “You don’t have any shareholders. You’re a smuggler.”

Vanderhouten put down his coffee cup and tried to look offended. “Dr. Cadell, I am a graduate of the Rotterdam Shipping and Transport College. I placed third in a class of eighteen.”

“I don’t give a damn what you did! Get this ship moving! Right away!”

“We’ll pay for this service,” I said. “Perhaps we could negotiate a price while the ship gets ready to leave the harbor.”

“The Seria can’t leave, Mr. Bettencourt. You haven’t been listening to me. As much as I wish to help, I must not violate the trust of my shareholders.”

Julia took a step toward the captain. “If we don’t go, they’re going to kill Daniel.”

“Nicky, take Julia out on deck.” Richard spoke in a bland manner, as if he was talking to the cleaning staff at his office. “Billy and I will talk to the captain.”

I glanced over at Billy and he nodded his head slightly. Holding Julia’s arm I coaxed her out of the wheelhouse. The ship’s cook brought us coffee and two bowls of rice, but Julia refused to eat anything. When Collins and Briggs appeared on deck I told them what was going on.

“Sorry, pal. Can’t go. Won’t go.” Collins said. “Playing nursemaid to a mob of militiamen is definitely not in our contract.”

“To hell with your contract,” I said. “Take your gear and get off this ship.”

“You didn’t hire us,” Briggs said. “We don’t answer to you.”

“If you did, I would have fired you two weeks ago. You’re both cowards.”

Briggs flexed his shoulder muscles. “This little ratbag just insulted us, Tig. I think he needs a lesson.”

They both came toward me, but I was ready. I wanted to hurt someone—kick, gouge, and bite like a crazy man. I had to do something that would release the furious energy in my brain.