Authors: Peter Matthiessen
Far Tortuga (14 page)
Byrum, who has been whistling, stops to clear his throat.
Yah. (
pause
) So, y’see, de crew was all upset dere, dat de
Lydia Wilson
had been lost, but Allie arrived at de conclusion right away. It was Harley Rivers caught dis turtle and brought him down to Miskita Cay, and he advised Allie dat dis same turtle dat he caught dere at Dead Man Bar in de week before had been caught again, and he asked if de
Wilson
had gone down, cause de
Wilson
was corryin dat turtle home.
Byrum glances at the Captain, who is silent.
Dat day gone a week, Allie had told him to mark some turtle and put dem in de
Wilson
crawl, cause she goin home. One of dem was a he-turtle, a pretty turtle, well-shaped, with a very yellow calipee dat looked like gold. So de
Lydia Wilson
left, bound for Cayman, and a norther come down just after she got home and wash dis gold turtle out de crawl. And de second week after de
Wilson
had left, Harley come down from Dead Man Bar with dis same gold turtle, askin if de
Wilson
had sunk. Allie said, No, if de vessel had sunk we wouldn’t have de turtle, cause I don’t think dere was anybody on board would had thought to go and cut de turtle loose, which would had meant dat de turtle would drown bein dat dere fins was tied.
You finished, Byrum?
Dass de conclusion he arrived at, see. In a tight place, de vessel sinkin, everybody would be scufflin for dereselves. So Allie told Harley dat in his opinion de turtle had escaped out de crawl. Took dat gold turtle just a week to come back across two, three hundred mile of ocean from Cayman to his own rock dere at Dead Man Bar.
Gold turtle, mon.
You finished, Byrum? (
pause
) Now dat were
White
Charley Bush, de first coptin of de
Noonan
, dat I talkin about, not Black Charley Bush, dat were prob’ly some relation to Wodie dere. Call dem White Charley Bush and Black Charley Bush. (
laughs
) Dat were de distinction between
dem
two fellas. White Charley Bush, he de grandson, I believe, of dat Copm Carl
Bush dat learned navigation from de British Navy and brought it back to de Old Rock, long about 1870. In de fifty years before dat, dey was sailin down here to Nicaragua and home again just by dead reckonin.
Copm? You wrong about de
Noonan
, brother. De
Noonan
never come until 1932, and de master were not C. C. Bush—it were Copm Allie.
Will? Goddom it, Will, you and Byrum—
Den Elroy copied dat design and went to work and built de
Lydia Ebanks Wilson
, with frames of Cayman mahogany in de place of oak. Den he went to work and built—
Will? You think you have de knowledge to instruct me on dis motter?
I only sayin—
I got to say, Will, dat you very quiet compared to some dese fellas, and dat is best, darlin, cause you makes de most sense when you haves your mouth shut.
Athens lights a cigarette from the one he is throwing away. He crumples the empty orange pack and flings it at the rail, and again the wind carries it back onto the deck.
So Vemon say to de woman, Goddom it, Vemon say, Goddom it to hell, he say,
Talk
to me! He slap her, y’know. And she just proceedin to walk along dere like he were some kind of a miskita. So he say,
Talk
to me! He say, You goddom old bitch, you
fuckin
on me! (
laughter
) Now his woman dere, she hadn’t wanted to acknowledge it, y’see? So she just kept on easin along, easin along, like she was walkin over dere to Boilers to cut palm tops. Make him a nice hat or something. And he still runnin alongside of her, in de sun. So he say,
Talk
to me. He don’t say, Talk to me; he say,
Talk
to me! He say, You goddom old whore, you
fuckin
on me! And she kept walkin. When he slap her, she kept right on walkin.
Dat woman not talkin, mon. She walkin.
Yah. (
laughs
) She sayin to herself, Woman! Woman, you best hold your speech!
Look at Buddy! First time I see him grin!
Raib grabs at the blowing orange pack and misses.
Dommit, Athens, throw your mess downwind—
A cool night wind, and stars.
In the bows, a clank of chain and shriek of ratchet; a storm lamp shudders in the galley.
Silhouettes on the night sky.
Over the engine hatch, the yellow bulb rolls with the ship, shifting the shadows. Raib is crouched over the hole, hands on knees, peering below; his voice is muted, in respect for darkness.
Last night you hear me say we sailin at three dis mornin, and you wait till I wakes you to oil dem engines?
No
, mon! Dass no good!
A silence. In the darkness of the hold, Brown’s eyes gleam in the reflected light.
Nothin to say?
A wisp of cigarette smoke on the wind. Low, heavy coughing.
Raib straightens, turning toward the galley.
Who in dere? Athens? You de cook now? Why ain’t you forward with dem on de windlass?
Athens coughs, pointing at his chest.
Dat engineer doin okay de other night with dat busted manifold.
Okay? Okay, you said? Sot dat port engine wrong so dat de shaft still vibratin, and we miss a day’s fishenin on account of dat—call
dat
okay? Put a Stillson wrench on de pipe threads? Corry all de nuts and parts in a wet carton with holes in it, so dey all over de deck and bilge—dat okay too? He call de manifold “mon-fool,” he such a fuckin idiot, and after dat he call hisself “engineer”! I believe “mon-fool” be a better name for him!
Athens dumps coffee into water brought already to a boil.
Raib bellows at the night:
MON-FOOL!
Now Brown is on deck, in the swaying light. In the shadow of his sombrero, his eyes are hidden. He says nothing.
Wind blowing. The rawhide chin straps dance on the ragged shirt.
Underway.
Coming aft from the windlass, Vemon salutes the Captain; he takes coffee from Athens.
Copm Raib! Copm Raib? We headin for Cape Gracias, Copm Raib?
The Captain acts as if he has heard nothing. Then he turns so swiftly that Vermon slops his cup.
What de hell you ask dat question for? You
know
we goin dere!
I didn’t think you go so far west as Cape Gracias, Copm Raib!
You domn fool, dey ain’t nothin tween here and dere on de course we headed! What you know about it anyway? What you
care
? I don’t mind answerin a serious question, but when a mon ask a question just cause he got a mouth to ask it, dat is something else!
Vemon mutters, nursing his coffee. It has a bad burnt smell and a faint stink of petroleum.
Hear dat? He blast two of dem already dis mornin.
One of dese days de
Eden
gone to rot dere at de barcadere, cause no mon go crew with him, he be dat disagreeable. Every day de mon blast you de way he do, den one day you say, Kiss my ass!
Mind you don’t say it too loud, mon—he might throw you to de sharks.
The
Eden
beats across the Main Cape Channel toward the coast. Over her wake, stars fail; the horizon swells. The men take their coffee to the stern and watch the sky fill with pale light. A rim of fire, a great fire flow where the corona clings to the horizon. Then a livid sun escapes into the sky.
Domn wind again today. Y’see de sky color?
Dis wind got no business with us in de fair-weather months; dis be de wind of June!
We ain’t gone to set no net
dis
evenin, I tell you dat. And de season gettin away from us. Prob’ly de
Adams
at Miskita Cay, gettin set to clear for home.
Dat Brown should had dat engine oiled, dass right enough.
Dat ain’t no reason, Will! De reason is, we set sail in dis half-ass fashion, with no cook, no proper engineer, no rangers—
Dere weren’t time. (
sighs
) Copm Raib say de world gainin on him.
Dass it, so now we hurryin, only we runnin de engines at half speed!
He breakin dem in.
You come all de way up from Honduras—dey ain’t broken in?
Well, dere’s dat shaft on de port engine.
Mon, dat vibration mostly in his head! He don’t know nothin about engines! You see de way we work like donkeys on dat windlass dere, and dat wind blowin? With dem engines, he could had ride forward over de hook, and slack dat chain—save ten minutes when de wind blowin!
I don’t know, mon. As a coptin, he okay. Got to give de mon dat much; he know de sea. It only de way he treat de men—dat de back-time way.
He a wind coptin, dass de trouble. He a sailin mon, and he used to de old-time way. All his life he been ziggin and zaggin, he don’t know how to go straight.
With sunrise, the wind freshens. Iron seas rise in the
Eden
’s wake, picking up her stern so high that her propellers churn the surface, then sliding her down the sea’s back, to wallow in the trough. The swells pass on beneath the bow, unrolling in broad ranks toward the mainland.
How de boy doin, Doddy? He kind of quiet.
He seasick, dat de motter with
him
. I should had left him home into de school, but he like to hang around with me some way.
Raib opens his jackknife and shuts it again, using one hand.
He a good child, never give me trouble. (
laughs
) Maybe
dass
what de motter is—lack of spirit.
Buddy very nice. He got nice manners.
Oh, I seen to
dat
! De manners dat dey is dese days … well, some things he do very good. De way he prog dem lobster, dat is very clever. Rum Point Channel. Swim right among de reef, mon.
Well, dass very fine.
Speedy, I believe dat he lack nerve. You remember de other day when de ocean was so high, he look kind of coward dere.
He only seventeen, mon.
When I were seventeen, I were sailin to de cays as pilot!
Well, dass fine too.
Went rangin when I was fourteen! Den I sail one trip in de crew, and I spent dat trip up on de masthead
lookin
, and
seein
, and
rememberin
! And de next voyage, dey had no choice but to put me dere in de port boat as pilot!
De boy somebody else, got to remember dat.
De manner dat he stand dere lookin at me …
Maybe he stand dere lookin at you cause he hopin dat one day you look at
him
.
