A dark wood slab on the Red River, like a splinter in a wound,<strong>the Bachoi </strong>sits sullenly low in the bloody water.<br/><br/>It is a thoroughly unremarkable ship.  Stained dark, its hull is a homely box of wood some forty feet long, with a wide, covered hold surrounded by a deck that is little more than a walkway.  It has a sail, a rudder and a pole to assist in steering, all of which just seem like fragile instruments stuck onto a block of wood.<br/><br/>It offers no raised decks for better perspective, no concealment from the sauteeing humidity of the sun, no cover, no mercies or luxuries but for what it keeps chained in its belly.<br/><br/>The Bachoi is, in essence, a floating cask; in resemblance, a drifting coffin.