Flaming Zeppelins (27 page)

Still, it was not high noon, and we went along, bumping up against trees, having to get out and clear brush (actually, I didn't get out; I would have slowed us down considerably), looking this way and that for a trail.

Finally, we decided it was best to just head to the beach, listen from there, and then find our way back in. Trying to thread our way to the cries in the dark was impossible. But, out on the beach, once we located the cries, perhaps we could ride directly to them. It was my surmise that the sounds were not too deeply in the woods, but along the edge.

We found the trail that Mr. Twain and I had cleared, and once on that, our time picked up. As we neared the beach, we realized that the sound had been coming from there all along, not the woods at all. Something about the island, the trees, the crashing sea, had made the source and distance of sound hard to determine.

Now, we realized they were originating somewhere down on the beach, and that they were moving away from us. Eventually, we came out of the forest and hovered over the sand.

There in the fuzzy moonlight, we could see a horde of footprints. Some of them shoed, some bare. Among them were a few huge prints that did not appear human. There was also the sign of something large being dragged, like a sled. A very big sled. This dragged thing had mashed down many of the odd, nonhuman-appearing prints, but the few of those prints that were visible were well indented, which, from having read Buffalo Bill's adventures, I knew meant that whatever was on the other end of those feet was large and heavy.

“What do you make of it, friends?” Mr. Verne asked.

Mr. Twain climbed out of the cruiser, bent down and touched the big track.

“Well, if this was a Fenimore Cooper novel,” Mr. Twain said, “we could not only determine what made this print at a glance, we could probably tell its age, hat size, and the length of its dong. Then we could dig it out, harden it in about five minutes by blowing on it, then ride about in it on the ocean like a boat, having swollen it to thirty times its size by a piece of bullshit esoteric Indian lore.”

“You do not like this Fenimore Cooper's work, do you, my friend?” Passepartout said.

“Nope,” Twain said.

“I am no tracker, no Hawkeye,” Mr. Verne said, “but what we can do, since there are tracks most everywhere, is follow them.”

“What if we do catch up with them?” Mr. Twain said.

Mr. Verne paused. “Might I suggest extreme caution.”

“That's how I'd play it,” Mr. Twain said.

“It would be smarter to ignore the whole thing,” Passepartout said.

About that time there came a long loud cry that trailed off into a horrid groan.

Mr. Twain had risen from examining the track. He said, “Perhaps. But can any of us ignore that?”

“I can not, sir,” Mr. Verne said. “Though, perhaps, before this night is over, I will wish that I had ignored it.”

“Let's get to sneaking,” Mr. Twain said.

We had not gone far before the fish I had eaten earlier went to work on me. I love fish, but like most seals, it gives me gas. And it's a foul gas, I might add. But I'll not discuss it in detail, because it has been mentioned before and humans seem somewhat reticent to talk about the natural processes of their bodies.

“Ned,” Mr. Twain said, “you keep that up, and you can get out of the cruiser and waddle along.”

I wrote on my pad and pushed it around where he could see it. SORRY, MR. TWAIN. I CAN'T HELP IT. SOMETIMES, IF YOU EAT MORE FISH IT WILL SETTLE THE STOMACH. WE COULD PAUSE HERE WHILE I GRAB A SNACK IN THE SEA.

“No time for that, Ned.”

SORRY. OF COURSE, YOU ARE RIGHT. BUT IT WOULD TAKE ONLY A MOMENT.

Mr. Twain ignored me, which I suppose was best. We cruised along the beach, and sometimes we rode over the waves as they crashed against the sand. I loved the sound of the waves, the smell of the sea, its white foaming thunder broken only by the occasional moans or cries of that which had awakened, and now, guided us.

As we traversed the beach, the shoreline narrowed, and the jungle trees pushed out closer to the ocean. They were scrawny there, and pale from the leaching of the salt spray.

We could see where whatever it was that had been dragged, had in fact, been pulled into the water, and then around the outcrop of jungle, back onto where the beach became wide again.

Beyond that, we saw the blaze of a large fire. It gave off a great orange glow. And now we could identify what had been dragged. It was high and dry and parked between a couple rows of widely spaced palm trees. It was a ship. A large wooden ship. And, not far off shore, in a kind of cove was another ship. Its black sails were trimmed. On a high mast a Jolly Roger floated in the sea breeze and flapped like a wag's tongue.

What swarmed over the beached ship and the shore around it made our jaws drop. They could only be described as pirates. Of the yo-ho-ho variety. Appearing to be of an age long lost. They looked as if they could have stepped out of some of the old pirate books I had read.

I was so shocked, and secretly delighted, I thought I might shit myself.

And they were jubilant pirates at that. Leaping and cavorting, drunk as flies in a barrel of cider, cutlasses waving about or strapped to their sides, belts stuffed with old-fashion cap and ball pistols, or brandishing old-style rifles about, they danced around the fire to the crude stylings of an old squeeze box, pushed and pulled by a large man in a wide-brimmed hat. His leg looked to be nothing more than a peg of wood.

There was something else. Something large amongst the palm trees. Something I could not identify, but something that moved.

The noise we had been following, the cries, they came from this large thing's quarter. And there was another thing, a screeching sound, and the slash and pop of what sounded like a dozen whips. And when they popped, the thing in the dark cried.

“I suggest,” Mr. Twain said, “we ride up in those woods there, and sneak around. I got a feeling being seen head on might not work out too well for us.”

“Oui,” Mr. Verne said.

So we used the cruiser to glide into an opening in the jungle, began making slow progress through gaps in the trees toward the camp. The jungle rose up dramatically from where the beach had widened and this positioned us high up and amongst the greenery, looking down.

We climbed down from the cruiser, collapsed it and leaned it against a tree. Then we got low and crawled along on the ground until we were at the edge of the trees, up above them on an overlook built over the centuries by sand being pushed in from the shore and the sea bottom. It smelled very fishy. Very nice.

I did not like crawling on my stomach however. There were rocks in the sand and they cut me a bit.

Down below we could hear their laughter and yelling, the cries and groaning of that which was in the shadows, and of course, that miserable music from the squeeze box. Some were even singing pirate songs. Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum stuff. It was all quite off-key, I might add.

Now we were close enough that we could identify (I don't know if that is the proper word) the great shape from which the cries emitted, the great shape that was the target for the whips.

It was an ape.

Sort of.

The beast was forty feet tall if it was a foot, and very broad. There were chains around its neck, wrists and ankles. A sort of grinding machine had been put on the beach, something from the pirate ship no doubt, and it had a wheel on it, and it was turned by the ape, grinding… whatever…in the moonlight.

I could see the name of the beached vessel written on its side —
Der Fliegende Hollander.
Sitting with their backs against the ship were a number of bedraggled people. A rope ran along the side of the ship, from bow to stern, and other ropes had been attached to that rope, and in turn the people had been fastened to those. They looked as dejected as pet pigs that had been decided on for dinner.

Then, I almost cried out. For I recognized two of the captives.

The Sioux warrior and visionary, Sitting Bull, and the black-haired beauty, Cat — her name being the source of her origin — were among the prisoners.

I wrote:

I KNOW TWO OF THE CAPTIVES. THEY ARE MY FRIENDS. SITTING BULL AND CAT. I THOUGHT THEY WERE DEAD. WE WERE IN THE
NAUGHTY LASS
AND IT SUNK. I THOUGHT THEY, LIKE BUFFALO BILL'S HEAD, WERE EATEN BY SHARKS. BUT, LIKE ME, I SEE THEY SURVIVED.

“I'll be damned,” Mr. Twain said.

ME, TOO. WHAT CAN WE DO?

Mr. Twain patted me on the head, said, “Hold your water. Yes, I recognize Sitting Bull now. From photographs. But there is another Indian down there. See the braid? Do you recognize him or any of the others?”

NO.

I turned my attention once again to the great ape, who was working at turning that odd wheeled device, going round and round to the snap and pop of pirate whips.

The beast pushed at the wheel by grabbing onto the bar to which it was chained, putting his back into it.

Around and around went the wheel, and I could discern now that the wheel was some kind of crushing device, and that pirates were feeding something into a space beneath it, and that when the wheel turned, the stuff was crushed, the residue forced through a pipe, into a barrel, beneath which was a hot fire.

Twain sniffed. “Mash,” he said. “They're making some kind of liquor with a crude crushing device they've rigged. It looks to be a type of cane they're crushing. Like sugar cane.”

“Now it is my turn to be damned,” Mr. Verne said.

“Probably discovered the cane on the island, and are as happy as clams about it,” Mr. Twain said. “My guess is they were spending time here, resting up, drinking, and they spotted this ship and went out to take it. And did. Had this ape pull it to shore. My guess is, like the cane, they discovered him on the island. Makes sense considering what we've seen here. That great beast that brought us down, for example.”

“It's easier to scuttle a ship that way,” said Passepartout. “Having it on shore.”

“But pirates?” Mr. Verne said. “These people look out of their time. That ship. Both ships. Their clothes. The cutlasses, the cap and ball pistols. Most odd.”

“That ship, the beached one, or the one docked off the island, could be our way out,” Mr. Twain said. “Provided we could rescue a crew from the pirates. I, for one, couldn't sail a rowboat. Now, if it were a steam craft, and had a paddle wheel, we would be in luck.”

“Since there is no paddle wheel,” Mr. Verne said, “might I suggest another plan.”

“Okay?” Mr. Twain said.

“I didn't say I had one,” Mr. Verne said. “I said I suggest we have another. Anyone?”

Mr. Twain said, “I suppose there is only one thing to do, and that's wait. Perhaps, if those reprobates drink enough grog, tire of making more, they will go to sleep. Then and only then can we slip down and free the prisoners.”

“Making instant grog,” Passepartout said. “Without aging, that is bound to be nasty.”

“The cane is probably old, maybe even decayed,” Twain said. “That way, it ripens almost instantly. It may not be fine liquor, Passepartout, but enough of it will get you drunk. And there is little doubt in my mind that is their ultimate goal.”

“Most uncivilized,” Passepartout said.

As we watched, the stocky peg-legged pirate we had spotted before came well into view. His wide-brimmed hat hung over his head like a black cloud and a nasty looking pigtail wormed from the back of his head and was draped over the shoulder of his filthy blue coat like some sort of horrid little beast that had died in its sleep. A cutlass dangled at his side. He had a crooked dagger in his broad belt, as well as two old single-shot cap and ball pistols. In the firelight his face looked rough, as if it had been used to sand flooring, then hosed down and left out in the sun to dry.

He said something to the crowd that we couldn't hear, and a cheer went up. As we watched, a barrel was rolled out, tapped, and the pirates began to fill whatever they could find with the liquid, drink it faster than I gobble fish, and believe me, I gobble pretty quick.

“All we can do,” Mr. Twain said, “is wait until they're so drunk they pass out, then maybe we can slip in, free the prisoners, and run away, back to our camp and hide.”

“What about the boat plan?”

“That's plan B, if plan A goes real well. Plan A never goes real well.”

“I hate to suggest it,” Passepartout said, “but perhaps the better part of valor is to watch out for ourselves. We can not do for us, let alone many others.”

I wrote: BULL AND CAT ARE MY FRIENDS. I MUST SAVE THEM. WITH OR WITHOUT THE REST OF YOU.

“I am sorry to have said such a thing,” Passepartout said. “I was wrong to think it. It just came out.”

“You were merely saying what all of us, with perhaps the exception of Ned, are thinking,” Mr. Twain said, patting Passepartout's arm. “Of course, we will all do what we can, Ned. We know what we must do. But we must be cautious. There's no use going off half-cocked. That will not help us one little bit. We rest here, wait until they are blind drunk.”

I lay on my back beside Mr. Twain on the ground, brooding. It is uncomfortable for me to lie on my back like that, but I brood better that way.

“Uh, what are they doing now?” Mr. Verne said.

I rolled over on my belly for a look.

A couple of the pirates went over to the trotline that held the row of prisoners, picked one, a smallish brute of a man, cut him free of the line, brought him over to the pirate who appeared to be their captain, the one with the greasy pigtail and the wide-brimmed hat.

The Captain, as I will call him, looked at the man and laughed. He said something, and the man said something back, dropped to his knees and begged. I couldn't hear him beg, for which I am grateful, but begging was what he was doing. That was obvious.