Isle of the Snakes by Fish Robert L.;

Author:Fish, Robert L.;
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road

SIX

The Valente was not a prepossessing boat in appearance. A smaller version of a harbor tugboat with far less superstructure, it carried a small one-deck bridge a bit forward of midships and a hatch leading to an engine well a bit aft. Beneath the bridge were the sleeping quarters and galley. The thin bulkhead that separated the large diesels from the dirty living quarters did little to keep noise out; sleeping on the Valente was impossible once the launch was under way. However, since no one had ever tried it, no one had ever complained. Both Jorge and Luis used the launch as their living quarters ashore, but at sea they were far too busy for sleep.

The decks of the squat launch were wide and well scarred; the lockers that lined the battered taffrail had seen in their time all manner of cargo from machine guns to Chinese, run in from some freighter anchored beyond the legal limit. On rare occasions the lockers had even seen fish and rope. Two rusted davits poking from the port side held a small dinghy; ropes led from the wooden falls to a battered power winch set beside the cabin wall. The Valente would not have been selected as a charter by anyone wintering in Miami Beach, but in Urubuapá it was considered a very fine—not to mention profitable—boat.

Luis and Jorge came hurrying up the jetty in the moonlight, shoving Da Silva along brusquely. They hustled him aboard, shouldering him up the narrow plank that served as gangway; his heel caught on the low rail and he pitched forward, hitting heavily and painfully on one shoulder, but his almost Indian rigidity of feature did not change. Luis dumped the suitcase and package carelessly on one of the lockers and squatted down, lashing Da Silva’s feet together tightly with cord taken from the rail. He then tied the tall man to one of the small warping capstans and without a pause trotted back to the jetty to cast off the heavy ropes that held the boat. Jorge was already at the engines, opening the oil valves, priming them. Luis jumped aboard, coiled the ropes, and padded over to relieve Jorge at the engines; the smaller man without a word ran swiftly to the small one-deck bridge and scampered up the ladder. In seconds the engines had responded with a low roar and the stubby boat was leaving a broad wake as it sped away from the shore line and headed for the tiny mounds that marked the outer islands against the far horizon.

It was all neatly and quickly done and demonstrated a long-time practice in rapid co-operation—aboard ship, if not ashore—between the two brothers. Da Silva, lying with one shoulder painfully pressed against the capstan, was almost forced to admiration. While the men were shabby and poorly dressed, and the boat could have stood a thorough cleaning and a complete paint job, the diesel engines gave every indication of exceptional care. Da Silva, as the owner of a rather unusual taxi, appreciated the thought behind the engines.

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