Ferry Crossing

Ferry Crossing

by Cleve Taylor

Martin could not see the ferry that would take him across the Mississippi River from Baton Rouge to Port Allen. A heavy fog shrouded the ferry as it approached the Baton Rouge landing on its continuous round trip. But he could hear its toot as it announced its arrival. At this hour, 3:15 a.m, there was no automobile traffic and Martin was the only foot passenger awaiting transport across the Mississippi. He was surprised that it was still in service. A cell mate had said the ferry stopped running back in 1968, but Martin did not believe him, and sure ‘nuff, here comes the ferry.

He rehearsed in his mind how he was going to talk his way into a free trip because he had not a penny to his name to pay for his fare. He was dependent on the good will of the ticket attendant on the ferry to not make a fuss about his not buying a ticket. And Martin wanted to draw as little attention to himself as possible.

It was possible that the guards at Angola State Prison were not yet aware of his disappearance, or that if they were, that it was unlikely that an A. P. B. alert would be in effect in Baton Rouge which was some distance away from Angola. Martin had been in line to visit Old Sparky for many years now, but appeals and changing attitudes about the death penalty had kept him alive for almost forty years. But the wheels of justice had finally turned against him and he was sure there would be no further delays.

Martin was sort of surprised how easy it was to get rat poison and develop a tolerance for it by ingesting small amounts over a period of months. Then two days ago, in front of witnesses he feigned a suicide attempt by taking rat poison and getting himself sent to the infirmary.

A knocked out attendant and stolen scrubs later he walked out of the prison, secreted himself in a delivery van, and found himself in St. Francisville. He acquired jeans and a shirt from a dryer at a laundromat, and thumbed his way to Baton Rouge, trying to make his way across the river to the little town of Maringouin where an old friend might still be living.

But right now, he needed to get across the Mississippi.

He watched as the ferry eased up to the landing and was amazed at how quiet it was. No clanging or noises. Apparently no cars were getting off and no cars were getting on so the metal carway wasn't lowered, but the gangplank was extended so that he, the only passenger, could board. There were no passengers getting off although he could see several standing in the lounge area. To his pleasant surprise, no one approached him about a ticket.

Martin considered that the ferry must be behind schedule when it immediately departed, not waiting to see if other passengers or cars would arrive. He entered the lounge and saw no staff, just five passengers, all standing and looking blankly through the windows out into the fog.

Looking more closely, the man standing nearest him looked like a cadaver, his body wasting away, the skin on his face dried tightly against his face, his eyes almost disappearing in their sockets, his clothes too big for his body. He was wearing a large diamond ring which hung loosely on his desiccated ring finger.

Three others, two men and a woman, stood together and stared out another window. The three of them looked like they had taken a ride inside a cement mixer. One man's arm was obviously broken, all three had lacerations, their clothes were all torn, and the woman's legs looked akilter. Martin surmised that they may have been pulled out of a really bad car crash.

A fifth passenger, a youngish college aged male with a crewcut , wore an LSU emblazoned sweatshirt and jeans with the required tear at the knee. He wasn't all beaten up like the little family, but he did look like he had just come off a drinking binge and had that terrible blend of alcohol and vomit smell that Martin had long ago filed away in the recesses of his mind. He shuddered at the smell and the memory it recalled.

Finally a short sallow looking man wearing thick lensed dark rimmed glasses approached Martin with a clipboard. He stopped in front of Martin, looked up at him and said, "Martin? Right?". Martin nodded yes.

"Good to finally see you. We've held your reservation for you for thirty years.". He looked back at the clipboard. "I see that they changed the cause of death from electrocution to suicide by poison."

Startled, Martin asked, "Where is this ferry going?"

He got no answer. The man just walked away laughing as if Martin had said something hilarious.