Assateague Rum Runners Read online

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-cal
iber 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