Horrors from Codfresh Lake: Coming in June

by Bill Russo

The humble Crane Berry blossoms of Cape Cod
 provide a backdrop for my new book coming in June

My new book coming out in June in paperback and on Amazon Kindle, is "Horrors from Codfresh Lake"

It is a prequel to the Jimmy Catfish story in my short book, Swamp Tales: Horrors  from the Hockomock Swamp and the Marshes of Cape Cod. 

 In direct response to requests from my readers, this book is much longer than Swamp Tales and it spans the Atlantic Ocean from the islands of Cape Verde to the great fishing ports of New Bedford and Cape Cod. 


Here's a sample from the first few chapters......

Horrors from Codfresh Lake
by Bill Russo (Copyright 2015) 

(WORKING COPY)

Prologue

Cape Cod - the 21st. Century

The horse-shoe shaped Mid Cape Highway that runs from the Cape Cod Canal to Provincetown is 64 miles long. Halfway down, is the town of Harwich.

In the middle of Harwich, several miles past eerie Bell's Neck Road, where a dense forest has morphed into a shallow, tree-stump pond; is a dirt road - really just a path, that leads to a small village called The Marsh.

There's only one business building in the tiny 'throwback' settlement. It's a creaky, wooden two-story structure with faded red paint, that houses a general store - with pickles, ice cream, common crackers in a barrel, and canned goods inside. On the porch, outside, framing the entry way are two benches for sitting.

The one on the left is painted blue with white lettering on the back slats saying "Democrats". On the right hand side, is a red bench, with the same white lettering saying, "Republicans".

Most of the villagers will sit in either one. They might call themselves G.O.P., but they like the Kennedys - especially the war hero, Johnny who became President.

Or they might be Democrats, but they like the war hero "Ike", who became President.

Old timers gather on warm summer days to sit on a red bench or a blue bench, depending on their mood, and gaze across the street at a crystal clear lake with a sandy bottom and generous beaches.

"That little pond is nothing like Codfresh Lake," says the owner of the store, a thin shrunken man everyone calls

'AP'.

"What's Codfresh Lake?," one of his companions asks.

Using the question as an invitation; the wrinkled old man takes a pull from his bottle of Birch Beer and sits on the Blue bench opposite his friends. He wears a faded Red Sox cap. With his white fluffy beard, topped by an old fashioned handlebar mustache. he looks like a skinny Santa Claus.

'AP' begins to tell a tale of a body of water so strange as to defy description. A lake compounded of equal sections of fresh water, sea water, and an unearthly brackish stretch, said to be inhabited by man-eating catfish.

"Even stranger than that," he continues," is that it was also home to a person who was more catfish than human. Few people know about Codfresh Lake, and even fewer about that fish-man, Jimmy Catfish. I saw him. I knew him. The story ends here on Cape Cod but it starts out far across the ocean in another cape, Cape Verde."

Chapter One - Sao Nicolau (St. Nicholas)

Two men on horseback are riding to Tarrafal, the only seaport, and one of just two villages on the tiny island of St. Nicholas. After an interminable season of famine and drought they have abandoned their homes and are fighting through an angry windstorm on a September afternoon in 1949.

"This barren island of St. Nicholas has little of Christmas in it; other than its name. It is 150 square miles of naked mountain surrounded by a ragged coastline too wasted to even sprout weeds," said Francisco da Silva, the taller of the two.

"That may be true Cisco, but it's our home."

"Not for long Carlos. Not for long. When we get to Tarrafal, we will find a ship to carry us out of here."

"Cisco, you sound just like your cousin the poet. He's always stirring up people, trying to get them to leave the islands and go to America."

"Yes Carlos. last year when he wrote his book, he predicted that by the end of 1950 one out of four Cape Verdeans will be emigrating to the United States for a better life."

"And do you think we will be among them Cisco?"

"I do. There is nothing to hold us here. We have already left our houses. And what did we give up? A couple of shacks and a few acres of land that resembles over-baked bread."

Cisco started to say something else but was cut off as the wind suddenly picked up and pitched a load of desiccated earth into his throat.

The two friends, coughing from the biting onslaught, closed their eyes, covered their noses with their hands, and tucked their chins into their chests.

Though there were a handful of cars on St. Nicholas in the 1940s, most people still rode horses, as did Francisco da Silva and Carlos Pires on that Autumn day when they headed from the main village of Ribeira Bravo to the island's only other settlement, the fishing town of Tarrafal.

Plodding along, their horses slowly navigated the narrow cobblestone path that rimmed the island, running like a thread from the one town to the other. There was no place else to go; it was literally a 'one road' island. The way was bounded on either side by mounds of parched earth and nothing else. No trees. No brush. No Grass. No weeds.

So bare was the view from the rocky path that to one side there truly was nothing but the blue Atlantic. The opposite side was merely a barren expanse of motley colored brownish earth supporting clusters of jagged gray rocks leading to Mount Gordo, (The Fat Mountain).

One time Carlos had called the roadside a desolate 'patchwork' and Cisco, who fancied himself a poet like his cousin who had published two books, said; "No Carlos: the dirt here is not a patchwork. It is so dry and empty that we should call it a 'parchwork'." Both men laughed, as each was young, hopeful and, possessed the resilient ability to be able to sneer at ironic misfortune.

The raging wind got stronger, scooping up great chunks of earth; grinding and mixing them with the air until a thick brown dirt-fog was brewed that overspread the entire island. Visibility was reduced to near zero.

Dismounting, they took off their shirts to cover the heads of the nervous horses, while shouting calming words. The bellowing storm finally hushed to a whisper, leaving Carlos and Cisco looking as though they had been flogged. Crimson rivers snaked down from their shoulders to their waists, washing away hundreds of sharp dirt-spikes that had been hammered into their backs.

They poured tepid water from their canteens into their cupped hands for the still frightened horses, saving scarcely a swallow for themselves before remounting.

Later, they wearily crested a ridge marking the final leg of their trip. The last bits of the dirt-fog drifted off towards the sun, which cast a golden path in the calm waters of Tarrafal Harbor.

Prodding their mounts to a gallop, they raced to a slim, fresh water stream than ran near the harbor. In winter it had been a river but the endless drought had reduced the Rio Gordo (The Fat River) to barely a brook.

Running and splashing like schoolboys on a picnic, the animals beat the water to a froth. They let the mounts play to just short of exhaustion before hobbling them and setting them to graze in a yellowed field near the beach.

"Let us go to the beach and wash off the rest of the dirt from the ride," said Cisco.

"I think I'll also need a few minutes in that special sand," Carlos added.

They charged into the tepid Tarrafal ocean waters and swam, allowing the salt water to soothe their raw backs as well as massage their tired muscles. As their strength returned they left the water and headed for the steamy, black sand. The unusual shiny sepia sand, found only on St. Nicholas Island, is said to have healing properties due to a high content of titanium and iodine.

After a brief rest, buried up to their necks in the medicinal beach, they retrieved the horses and cantered to Joao Neves' bar for some food and grogo, the local rum. In high spirits, they had hopes of meeting sailors who could steer them to a job aboard a ship bound for North America.

Chapter Two - Finding a Ship

With the bottle of Grogo between them and two mugs in front of them, Carlos and Cisco sat in one of the four high-backed booths in Joao's small building. Hungrily, they speared chunks of food from a platter of bread, cheese and sausage that had been set upon a table made of rough, unfinished planks.

Six wooden stools with no cushions were in place in front of the bar but only one was occupied. It was a slow night in Joao Neve's establishment, a fact which Joao lamented every time he poured a drink for his solitary bar stool occupant, a tall, spare white-skinned man who seemed to wince every time Joao complained about his sparse patronage.

"Hey mister, if you are sick of Joao's grousing, perhaps it's time to come and sit with us. Bring your mug and you can share our Grogo," said Carlos to the white haired man, who appeared to be in his early fifties.

"I'll be happy to do that," he said, nimbly jumping off the stool and settling into the space offered by Carlos.

"I'm Carlos Pires and this is Francisco da Silva - call him Cisco. We've left our houses and our land and hope to leave this island. In the meantime we're going to spend our last dollar on some food and drink. Join in."

"Thanks gentlemen. I am Captain John Manderer. If you want to leave Cape Verde I have a ship and I need crew. Why do you want to go?"

"Well Captain there are nine islands that make up Cape Verde," said Cisco after a long pull on his Grogo. "There is ours called St. Nicholas or Christmas Island. There is Fogo or Fire Island, in English, and seven others. Each island has two constant companions - drought and starvation; the one following the other. There is no Christmas on St. Nicholas Island and on Fogo (Fire Island), there is nothing but fire. The Fogo Volcano is always active. Rivers of boiling lava constantly threaten the settlements. The creeping death, as we call it, regularly engulfs whole villages. Every island has trouble of one kind or another Some people are resigned to living under these shadows, but not me and not Carlos; we are leaving."

"Cisco's cousin, a poet and author, has written that 25 per cent of all Cape Verdeans will be leaving the homeland by the 1950s, so you should have had no trouble finding sailors for your ship in Fogo," Carlos noted. "Why've you come to St. Nicholas?"

"Yes Captain. Why have you come here?," Cisco added.

"Because I need 30 sailors at a minimum for the voyage to America and in Fogo there were less than 20 willing to sign on, so I decided to ......"

"Do not say anymore," Cisco interrupted, "Carlos and I will sign on right now if it means we can sail to the United States."

"You mightn't say that after you find out what kind of a ship it is," said Manderer.

"If it floats, we are in," Cisco told him.

"Wait a minute," Carlos held up his hand and motioned to Cisco to be silent for a moment. He squinted his eyes and looked at the Captain. "I want to know. What kind of a ship is it?"

"She's called the Lynette C and she's a beauty. She's a sailing ship - the last commercially operated three masted schooner in New Bedford, Massachusetts. Also the last of her kind in all of New England. I spent $7,000 refitting her after I bought her and she looks as pretty as a movie star."

"A sailing ship?" they wondered in unison.

"Yes. A sailing ship. I sailed her from New Bedford to Cape Verde in just 32 days. We had five paying passengers and a cargo of one piano, four automobiles, 10,000 board feet of pine lumber, 40 thousand pounds of cement, and various household goods and bundles of clothing sent from people in New Bedford to friends and relatives. It was a very profitable voyage for me since I did not have to pay for fuel. But, when I landed in Fogo most of my crew left me for modern ships and none of the sailors that have joined the crew have ever worked on a sailing ship before. They won't go aloft to set the sails. If you can and you will, then I will take you on as First and Second Mates and I will pay you well."

"What cargo will we be carrying?" Carlos wondered.

"We will have 20 paying passengers and a cargo of 250 tons of salt."

"Captain Manderer. Allow me to me pour us all another drink and I will ask you a further question or two. If Carlos and I like your answers, then I am pretty sure we will sign on and help you get a full crew."

Cisco extracted from the Captain a contract for permanent employment as well as his promise to help the two men gain citizenship in the U.S.

The next morning they saw the Lynette C for the first time. She was big and beautiful. Just a bit shorter than an American football field, the ship was 260 feet long with 29 cabins and 58 berths.

Sailors all their lives, though in much smaller vessels, Carlos and Cisco soon became familiar with the ship and within a few hours showed great skill in setting and unsetting the sails on all three masts.

Captain Manderer came on board in late afternoon and was impressed by the innate skill of his two new mates. He shared the news that he had just that day signed a contract to transport 30 Cape Verdean cranberry bog workers to Cape Cod. This was in addition to the 20 people that had already booked passage. He reasoned that he could put 18 men into the nine cabins he still had vacant and place the other 12 men in the 58 crewmen's births.

Cisco said that he and Carlos would talk to the cranberry men and find out which ones had some fishing or sailing experience. Those that did, could be recruited as crew. Along with the 18 men they already had, this would bring them up to the needed complement of 30.

Captain Manderer ticked off a list of the ship's needs. The jobs of Captain and Quartermaster, who handles the operation of the ship on a day to day basis, were filled by Manderer himself and old Josiah Spant, who had been Quartermaster on the voyage from the States and had served well.

Carlos and Cisco occupied the First and Second Mates' slots. They spoke with the cranberry workers and found that many of them were able seamen who had worked in the packet trade between the islands. They were easily able to muster as many men as was needed.

Pedro Andrade was appointed as the Bosin because he had held the position on small packet ships that ran between Fogo and some of the other islands. The Bosin's job is supervision of the ship's supplies and maintenance of the vessel.

Jorge Fonseca had been a navigator in government service so he was selected for that job. Similarly they found men who had worked as carpenters and slotted them as carpenter and carpenter's mate.

Because he had been an orderly in a hospital, Artur Bernardo was appointed ship's surgeon, though he would be expected to do little more than dispense aspirins and perform first aid.

The job of cooking & running the kitchen fell to the Coelho brothers who in better times had owned a restaurant.

Lastly, they found Johnny Gomes a local hunter and fisherman who would act as their Striker. The Striker needs no nautical skills. His job is to supplement the food stocks by fishing, shooting sea birds, or hunting when they are ashore.

The rest of the crew would be trained as deckhands and would learn to set the sails, as well as clean and maintain the craft.

Chapter Three - Shipping off to Massachusetts

The Lynette C began her voyage to New Bedford at nine a.m. on October 3, 1949 in bright sunshine and a favorable wind. She was 32 feet across and her mainmast was 145 feet high. Under full sail, powered by more than 10,000 feet of canvas, she quickly reached 16 knots in calm seas.

Most of those watching from shore as she left, felt uncertain that the old schooner would safely make it to the United States.

Those on board were much more sure of themselves. The infectious optimism of the Captain and crew buoyed their spirits.

When they were four hours out, the cook; assisted by the assistant cook, a cabin boy, and the carpenters, began hauling planks and wooden sawhorses to the deck. They fashioned a 20 foot long table and covered it with white linen, before bringing out a special celebratory feast.

The Captain sat at the head of the table, eating with the first of two shifts. Tony Coelho, the twinkly eyed chief cook, began passing out steaming bowls of a stew that had been simmering since even before the ship was launched.

"What is this food? It's delicious," asked Manderer.

"Captain, this is Catchupa," Tony replied, "It is our favored food on the islands. It has beef and beans and hominy. When my brother and I ran the restaurant on Fogo, this was our best seller. On the side, in the smaller dish, is what we call Xerem, another feast staple made of dried corn."

The Captain was well pleased with his cook, for like an army, a ship does indeed travel on its stomach. As the wind ruffled his thin white hair, he looked up at the wind-stuffed sail on the mizzenmast, the shortest of the three masts, and felt good about the chances of great profitability of sailing vessels, even into the 1950s.

Manderer had served with competence as a deckhand, mate and finally Captain in a long career at sea. When he was in his late 30s he bought his first fishing vessel and plied the waters from New Bedford to Cape Cod. Many days his ship had the top catch at the docks and soon he had enough money saved for a second ship. Within five years his fleet numbered six fishing and four cargo vessels.

His business was number one in the port of New Bedford, which was the number one port in the entire United States in terms of dollar value of the catch. New Bedford has been the highest grossing port for many decades. Even into the 2000s, it still brought in the most revenue, although an Alaskan fishing community sometimes had a higher tonnage.

All of Captain Manderer's boats were motorized, modern and had the latest safety equipment. But one day he heard that the historic schooner, the Lynette C was for sale. She had a storied history in packet trade and had made dozens of transatlantic crossings. He was intrigued by the thought of going from Cape Cod or Fall River to Cape Verde under sail and not having to pay for fuel.

When he learned that the owners only wanted $15,000 for her, he went to them with cash and bought the boat the very next day.

After refitting the ship and securing a cargo for the first crossing, Captain Manderer began recruiting a crew. He was warned by friends and business associates that he was making a grave error, yet the more he thought about it, the more he wanted to - not only be the owner of a sailing ship, but actually captain it himself.

After making the decision to personally go on the voyage, Manderer pressed harder to complete the selection of personnel. Much of the crew he hired were Cape Verdean men anxious to go back for a visit to their homeland. They were smart and they were eager, but none had actually ever crewed a three-masted sailing ship and this bothered him some.

The problem was solved one night over Dawson Ale at the Gold Crown Tavern on Acushnet Avenue in New Bedford. Captain Manderer was drinking the locally brewed ale in the company of some of his crew when one of the men pointed to a rail thin old man in a pea coat and sailor's cap seated by himself in a booth in the back of the room.

"That's the man you should get to run the ship. That's old Captain Josiah Spant from Cape Cod. He ran packet ships all around the world for fifty years."

Manderer took a pitcher of Dawson's Ale and walked toward's the old salt's booth. Wispy white hair fringed his mostly bald head and a hard, pinched look was drawn on his face, but he smiled a broad, toothy grin when the Captain offered the Dawson's in exchange for a seat.

Manderer introduced himself and extended his hand.

"Don't think me rude, Captain," said the aged seaman, "but I have no hand to shake with. At least not a right hand."

Without being asked to, Spant spun the tale of his life's history.

"It was in nineteen and twenty-nine, when I was first mate on the Johnny B out of Fall River, that my troubles began.

The Captain was an idiot who had money but no sailing experience when he bought the ship. The Quartermaster was a drunk who was pukin' in the scuppers when we encountered the worst storm I have ever seen.

Naturally with the Quartermaster out of commission and the Captain an ass, I ordered the sails down. But the Captain came on deck and started screaming that we needed to keep the sails up to complete the trip on time so he could make his money. He overruled me and forced the men to reset the sails. In less than five minutes they were in shreds and it took us over a week to repair them.

Well, we finally got to Cape Verde and were going to island hop for a while, dropping off and picking up goods before heading back to the States. We were late in casting off from Brava Island for Fogo.

Because we had a fool for a Captain and a rum-dum for the second in command, the crew was always careless and somebody failed to release the shore line in time. When it snapped, it took my right hand with it.

I was in bloody agony for more than 24 hours until we finally reached Fogo, where they had to amputate my arm. The Johnny B sailed three days later, without me. Even if I was able, I wouldn't have gone on that cursed ship for any amount of money. The boat sank two weeks later in a minor storm. Twenty-eight passengers and twenty-two crew went to the bottom - including the rotten Captain and his addled Quartermaster."

Spant had made more than three dozen crossings in Three-masted and even Four and Five masted ships. Impressed with the ancient sailor, Manderer hired him on the spot, sealing the bargain with a final glass of Dawson's Ale. Manderer told Spant that he would be his Quartermaster and would have complete command of the day to day operation of the vessel.

Blessed with excellent weather and luck that made for smooth sailing, they landed at Fogo in just over a month.

The return trip which had started so well, began to take an ominous turn on the tenth day. A pounding gale came in from the North and smashed the rudder, causing the mizzenmast to crash down on the deck. Last in line and at about 100 feet, it is the shortest of the three masts.

Mr. Spant came to the rescue. With nimble movements that belied his age and infirmity, the Quartermaster rigged an improvised series of wires that allowed the damaged rudder to operate as good as new. Carlos and Cisco were constantly at the old man's side, helping him in any way they could, and helping themselves by absorbing his encyclopedic sailing knowledge.

As October became November in the 32nd day of the voyage, hurricane season began and the ship was blasted by a second storm that drove them back some 300 miles.

When the torment subsided they were becalmed. For five long days The Lynette C made no forward progress. Foodstocks began to dwindle dangerously, but once again the ship was rescued by a veteran crew member.

The Striker, Johnny Gomes, fetched a coil of rope and lowered a dory to the water. He spread chum on the surface, stood up in the little boat as it bobbed alongside the ship, and built a noose on the end of the rope. To the amazement of his 67 shipmates, he began twirling the rope in long circles above his head and lassoed sharks as they began churning through the bait. His long. bushy red beard danced like a flaming fire when he pulled on the straining line and dragged the beasts into the dory.

"It tastes just like chicken boys," he shouted as he hauled in ten of the beasts in a single afternoon. Setting out bits of the sharks and traps in empty lifeboats, he caught dozens of sea birds. He even snared large, meaty sea turtles. He thus provided thousands of pounds of meat, fish and fowl for the passengers and crew at a time when it was most needed.