Уильям Дитц - Into the Guns

Finally, the auxiliary tank was full. Sloan removed the tubes, screwed the cap onto the tank, and lugged it over to the side of the boat. After heaving the heavy container across the narrow strip of open water, he followed. Then he carried the container to the skiff, put it in, and cast off. No way in hell was he going to sit there and refuel the motor when the pontoon boat’s owner could arrive at any minute.

Sloan felt guilty as he got under way—and refused to make excuses for himself. He knew what his father would say: “Stealing is wrong regardless of the circumstances, son… You need to make it right.” But Sloan couldn’t make it right… And he could feel the weight of his father’s disapproval as he motored north.

Sloan glanced back over his shoulder from time to time, fearful that a vengeful yacht owner was after him. When a side channel opened up on the right, he took it. The bottom came up quickly, but the skiff drew very little water and entered without difficulty.

As the waterway curved to the left, Sloan realized that he was circling a small island. That was good since there were lots of trees on it, and they would screen him from the Intracoastal.

The moment a small cove appeared, Sloan cut power, pulled the outboard up out of the water, and rowed to shore. The hull made a scraping sound as the bow ran up onto a gravelly beach. Then it was a simple matter to ship the oars, get out, and wade ashore.

The next hour was spent taking a bath and donning clean clothes. Sloan got rid of the orange jumpsuit by digging a hole and burying it. As soon as that was accomplished, he built a small fire, knowing that if someone happened along, he’d look as innocent as a man with a scruffy beard could.

Sloan’s loot included a can of stew. After dumping it into the stolen pot, he was forced to wait. To kill time and slake his thirst, he opened the bottle of wine. And, lacking a corkscrew, he made quite a mess of it. I should have selected a red, Sloan thought to himself as he pried the last chunk of cork out. To go with the stew.

Sloan’s stomach rumbled ominously as he took the bubbling brew off the fire and went to work. He ate, using a cooking spoon and pausing occasionally to take sips of wine.

Once his stomach was full, Sloan was faced with a choice. It was midafternoon, so perhaps he should remain on the island and get an early start the next morning. But the sooner Sloan arrived in Lake Charles, the sooner he’d be able to travel north, where he hoped to find some support.

With that in mind Sloan put everything back in the boat, poured water on the fire, and rowed out to where he could start the motor. The channel led him into the main waterway, where he fell in behind a heavily loaded barge. With the motor running full out, Sloan could keep up—and was content to do so as day gave way to night.

Clusters of lights appeared, marking the locations of small communities and signaling the fact that the power was on. How could that be? But what was, was.

Finally, after an hour or so, Sloan made the decision to go ashore. He was tired and concerned lest the motor run out of gas while on the Intracoastal. And the last thing he wanted to do was to try to refill the internal tank in the dark. He saw some lights and took aim at them.

Fifteen minutes later, Sloan arrived at a small town. He had some money, but should he spend it? Especially in a little Podunk town where strangers would stick out. No, Sloan decided, it would be best to hold out for a larger town.

The waterfront park was equipped with picnic tables and metal barbecues. There was no way to know how the local police force would look on overnight camping, so Sloan chose the spot farthest from the parking lot, hoping to escape notice.

There wasn’t much firewood to be had, but Sloan managed to scrounge enough fallen branches to build a small fire and heat a can of chili. That, along with what remained of the wine, was sufficient to warm his belly.

After washing up, Sloan put on every piece of clothing he had with the rain poncho on top. Then, with no good place to sleep, he was forced to hunker down on a much-abused cushion that was enough to keep his butt up out of the water in the bottom of the boat. The incessant moan of a distant foghorn, the occasional barking of a dog, and a sudden rain shower kept him awake. The night seemed to last forever.

Dawn came eventually. But with no dry firewood, Sloan left as soon as there was sufficient light to see by. He figured he was north of Moss Lake and likely to reach the city of Lake Charles by evening.

The sky was blue for once, and Sloan hoped that was a good omen, as an endless succession of whitecaps marched down from the north. Spray exploded sideways as the boat smacked into the waves, and droplets of water flew back to wet his poncho.

There was no warmth to be had from the wan sunlight. All Sloan could do was sit in the stern and shiver, as the tireless five-horse pushed him past Prien Lake and into Lake Charles.

It was necessary to refuel shortly thereafter. Sloan had to hurry as waves hit the skiff broadside and threatened to swamp it. But he got the job done. And it wasn’t long before Sloan saw two office buildings and a TV tower on the horizon. The city of Lake Charles! He was close.

Forty-five minutes later, Sloan could see the town’s mostly low-lying buildings and a well-developed waterfront. And that raised a question: Where to leave the boat? The obvious answer was with other boats—in the hope that no one would notice it for a while.

It took about fifteen minutes to find a small marina, collect his scant belongings, and walk away. Maybe the authorities would be able to trace the boat back to its rightful owner via the registration decal on the bow. Sloan hoped so. The marina was located near the intersection of Bor Du Lac and Lakeshore Drives.

As Sloan entered town, he was surprised to see how many people were marching about, waving flags, and shouting slogans. A man carrying a Confederate flag was flanked by picketers armed with “New Order” signs.

Meanwhile, a hundred feet away, those waving American flags had the support of a costumed flutist who was playing “Yankee Doodle Dandy.”

Most of the bystanders were cheering for the Confederates, so it appeared that Huxton and his friends were making progress. Having failed to recruit him, what would they do next?

But politics would have to wait. Sloan had more pressing problems to deal with. Thanks to Short Guy he had enough money for some basic toiletries, a decent meal, and a night in a cheap hotel.

He awoke feeling hungry. But before Sloan went looking for breakfast, he wanted to take full advantage of the shower and the opportunity to shave the scruffy beard off.

Sloan had no choice but to put the same clothes back on. Clean now, for the most part anyway, he made his way to a nearby café, where he ordered the “Sunrise Special.” It consisted of two strips of bacon, two eggs any style, and two pancakes—plus all the coffee Sloan could consume. He ate every bite and consumed three cups of coffee.

Then it was time to hit the streets and look for an affordable way out of town. The first thing Sloan noticed was the number of people on the streets. And the way they were congregated around various speakers. By listening in, it soon became apparent that a referendum was under way. Should the state of Louisiana secede? Or remain with the “old” government, which, according to the propaganda being bandied about, was intent on subverting the Constitution on behalf of “the takers.” Takers being those on social security and public assistance.

That was bullshit, of course, and some of the “patriots” stood up to say so. One such person was a thirtysomething black man wearing a well-cut business suit. He was standing on the bed of a bunting-draped pickup truck and holding a bullhorn up to his mouth. “This is the time to rally behind our country,” he told a small crowd, “not to tear it down. Do you really believe that rich people are going to look after your interests? Of course they won’t… The only thing they care about is themselves! That’s what ‘security through self-reliance’ means. It’s another way of saying, ‘I have mine, and you can kiss my ass!’”