Far Tortuga Read online

  During the night, a migrant swallow has come aboard. Borne back toward the south, it bills water from a vibrating puddle of fresh rain in the rim of a fuel drum.

  The wind has slackened but the daybreak sky is a dead yellow that turns the sea to glimmering gray. Bruised masses shroud the sun, and an iron gleam is cast on the wet surface of the deck.

  Trousers hanging, rubbing his eyes with fists, Raib appears in the doorway of the deckhouse and gazes balefully to windward. The sea, roiled suddenly by squall, turns a soft black. Soon rain is pelting on the deckhouse roof, running off in wind-whipped strings. Raib cups it in his hand and splashes his face, then drinks some, gasping.

  I tellin you, Vemon, to drink fresh rain dat way is something good. Better den rum, darlin.

  Dass what dey call fair-weather rain! After dat rain come fair weather!

  Raib, who has turned away, whirls back.

  Fair-weather rain! Listen to dat! De wind gone rise again today, and be just as bad again tomorrow! Mon! I suppose you too drunk to see de sky last evenin? We gone to have wind, mon!

  Vemon retracts his neck into his bony shoulders. A limp collar much too big for him and the big striped cap that presses down his ears makes the helmsman’s neck look thin and unprotected. Though sober now, he is still shaky. He gums and mutters, sucking his lower lip; he hums and curses, casting dark looks at the world from beneath his cap.

  WIND!

  The wind rises as the morning grows, to twenty knots or better, blowing crests off the big seas that cross the small bows of the Eden. The broken blues are flecked with torn sargassum.

  Dat gulfweed never die, y’know—dat same piece dere were floatin by in Guineaman times, when old Neale Walker sunk de Genoese on de Pedro Bank.

  In the wheelhouse, the Captain stares into the south. On the floor, Buddy sits reading, his back to the deckhouse wall. Beside Buddy is a red scholar’s bag of imitation leather.

  I were not lookin for dis wind, I tellin you dat.

  Vemon call dat rain fair-weather rain—

  Fair-weather rain! You hear me, boy? Don’t listen to dat fool—he fill your head with trash! De weather is something dat is too important to be a fool about if you wants to keep your life on de bleak ocean! (somberly) I ’spect you to watch dat sky very careful dis evenin, and tell me what you read dere.

  I try to, Papa.

  Tryin not enough if a hurricane comin down on you, I tell you dat! You got to do it!

  Raib bangs the bulkhead with the flat of his palm, then speaks again.

  When de sun’s goin down on de horizon, a turtler must look out to de sunset. Supposin you havin a red sunset, and when you look back into de east, you see red above de blue. Well, dat is good weather: moderate weather or calm. Blue above de red means blusterous weather, prob’ly squally or plenty of breeze, and if you see it real gray, dat means blusterous weather, too. Red evenin sky and underneath is dark—well, dat is good red weather.

  Raib turns to face the boy for the first time, and now his voice is quiet and intense.

  Now where de wind will be blowin from depend on de way dat de stars hang. If de Milky Way hang on a northeasterly-south-southwesterly range across de sky, dere will come a southeasterly wind. East-to-southeasterly wind. If you see her range more southeasterly and northwesterly, dat means a northeasterly wind. And if she rangin almost west to east, de wind will be southwesterly …

  This is the U.S. Weather Station at Swan Island. Here is the report: For the Southwest Caribbean, winds east and southeast, nineteen to twenty-five knots, through Monday. State of the sea: choppy. Barometric pressure at sea level: twenty-nine decimal nine nine and steady.

  Got a radio, huh—dat something new!

  It new, okay, but it don’t send. Dey messages comin at me from all over de goddom Caribbean, but come down to sendin, de sonofabitch is quiet as a conch!

  Raib turns in time to see Byrum wink at Athens. Byrum clears his throat as Athens grins.

  One time I was over to Swan Island; went up dere to de weather station. Couldn’t come near, dem Yankees got so many bad dogs to keep you off.

  Spies, mon. Got spies in Caymans, too, most likely.

  What dey spy on at Swan Island? De sprat birds? Used to be de Glidden family raise plenty nice cattle over dere—now de Yankees in dere with bad dogs!

  Bad dogs protect de spies, mon. One thing spies don’t like, and dat is people spyin on dem. Oh, dey hates dat, mon!

  Well, what dem Yankees doin is, dey broadcastin to Cuba—we heard all dem spies yellin at de time of de Bay of Pigs. Got dem bad dogs dere to keep people off while dey tellin de Cubans what dey s’posed to be thinkin about Cuba. After dey gets done with dat, dey tell dem all about de land of de free and de home of de brave.

  As Speedy watches, Will rigs trolling lines, baiting his hooks with strips of white sail canvas smeared with lard. The lines bend away to leeward, over the rolling wake, dipping and sailing in the wind. In the distance, northbound plover, dark and fast, beat across the long slow courses of the shearwaters.

  Call dat a bait?

  When I ain’t got nothin better. (sighs) Copm Steadman dere on de Majestic used to say dat in de spring dey eat bird meat half de time, dey was so many of dem periodical birds comin aboard—snipes and all like dat. Now de people killin everything, and dey ain’t nothin in de month of April but a few dem little swallers.

  Maybe we get fish dis day, Mist’ Will. You all set dere for de greediest one.

  One time under sail, crossin de banks, we hit de tides correctly and we got three hundred pound of fish in one hour and a half. Three hundred pound, mon. On two lines. We got jacks, and den we got bonita, and den we got dorado, and den we got albacore.

  Maybe de boat cotch better under sail. So quiet dat way—she just rush along.

  De only thing is, now she go straight, she don’t have to beat. If de wind be fair or no fair, she go straight. Dat right, Copm Raib?

  Well, good men hard to get now for de sailin boat—de work is harder, and dey work in de night and in de day. De times is changin. You fellas wantin dis goddom progress cause you are lazy. I never wanted it some way, but I got to get on with life, so I make my peace with it.

  Dass de way de world go—modern time, mon.

  Modern time, huh? In de old days, I wouldn’t have no eighteen children to rear up like I got now, cause a mon could count on de half of dem bein dead before de age of ten—only de strongest ones survivin. Now dey all survivin, just like Buddy dere. Call dat progress? Children by de litter—can’t even remember de names! Buddy dere, he Wordsworth or Jim Eden—

  Sonny is Wordsworth, Papa. I Jim Eden.

  Contemplating his son, Raib nods his heavy head.

  Jim Eden. Dass what de world calls dat one.

  Dem Edens is kin to you, ain’t dat so, Copm? Desmond and all dem?

  No, mon! We ain’t no kind of kin to Desmond Eden!

  The swallow flutters in the water on the drumhead. Soon it rises and circles out onto the sky, then skims back again, hanging in the air one moment before settling on a crossbar of the shrouds. It preens its breast and settles close, riding south into the wind.

  Noon.

  Athens relieves Will.

  With a gaunt sextant, Raib takes a reading on the angle of the sun with the horizon, then returns to the deckhouse and pulls a book of tables and a hydrographic chart from under his mattress. He spreads the chart on the deckhouse floor. Its creases are worn and greasy, and he moves carefully to keep it from falling apart.

  H.O. 394: Punta Herrero to Cabo Gracias a Dios.

  On his knees, Raib traces his course with a thick finger.

  See dat, Athens? Sixteen degrees and 40 minutes. And I right on de point, boy, right on de point!

  Well, dass good. Better right on de point den right on de reef, dass what Copm Desmond say.

  Copm Desmond! De only one in Caymans calls him dat is Desmond Eden!

  Raib glares out the door, where Athens, staring away outboar
d, is whistling. With Athens’ head averted, the bill of his cap is aimed straight at his Captain, who grunts and bends his head again to his old chart.

  We be comin up onto de Gorda Bank in a little while. We pass Cay Gorda long about midnight.

  Just so we pass it, Copm, dat is de main thing.

  South of latitude 17, the Eden nears the continental shelf. The sea color changes rapidly from the night blue of the deeps to the dark smoky blue of fifty fathoms, then more rapidly still, in the next reach, to a roiled aquamarine. The ship is one hundred and twenty-five miles northeast of Cabo Falso, in Honduras.

  … calls dis Misteriosa Bank. Cause dey can’t find it.

  How many times you sailed dis way, Byrum? Misteriosa Bank over dat way westward, maybe a hundred mile. Misteriosa Reef, dat is de place dat nobody can find, cause it ain’t on de charts at all.

  Far Tortuga?

  Far Tortuga is de cay dat rises on Misteriosa Reefs. Dem reefs ain’t on de charts, but dere is vessels dat has come across dem all of de same! Oh yes!

  Den why ain’t dey reported?

  Very difficult to report much when you havin a mouthful of sand, darlin. (laughs) Dem vessels gone!

  All I sayin is, dis de most forsakenest domn part of all de oceans, dass what Copm Allie say—bad winds and bad currents and bad reefs.

  Yah, mon. Say dat again, darlin. Three hundred mile north and south, from Cay Gorda to Turtle Bogue, and half of dat same distance eastward from de coast, out to Misteriosa Reef—all of dat is a bad place if de storm cotch you. In all of dat distance dere is not one light or one buoy or one marker in dat whole bleak ocean, and not one good harbor—

  Bad place to go overboard, another thing. Dey shark dere of de biggest kind.

  Hear dat? Oh, Byrum hates sharks, mon!

  Buddy clears his throat.

  Copm Desmond—

  Copm Desmond?

  Well, Papa, Desmond tellin dem dere on de quai about dis tiger shark come up alongside one de catboats of Copm Steadman Bodden. And de men seen he was as long as de catboat, and he foller dem, dis big black shark. So de fellas thrown him a hox-bill dat dey had drawn in de nets, and de shark take dat turtle in just one bite. And after dat de shark got excited and capsize de boat. So two de fellas scromble up onto de keel, but de shark grob de other mon dere, and dat were de end of him—

  Dat is bullshit. Dey put all dem stories onto Steadman now, just cause he dead. Desmond sayin dat cause he think you child enough so you believe’m.

  Papa, dey was men dere listenin. I only snuck up dere—

  It don’t pay to be such a booby all de time!

  Well, I will say now, Copm, dere is one thing Desmond know, and dat is shark.

  DASS CAUSE HE A SHARK HISSELF! SHOW ME DE MON DAT EVER HAD BUSINESS WITH DESMOND EDEN AND NEVER REAP NO HURT FROM IT!

  A silence.

  Byrum clears his throat to conceal a smile.

  Y’see, Speedy, Desmond Eden were de main shark fisherman of de island, but he shift; he try one thing and if dat a failure, well, he gone again.

  The Captain nods.

  Tried murder once. (laughs) Good thing he shift away from dat.

  Well, Desmond turtlin again, Copm Raib—can’t do much hurt out in de cays.

  And he loyal now to his family, Copm Raib!

  He loyal cause he out here in de cays—ain’t nothin here to coot! And de onliest reason he out here is cause if he were not, he be in jail!

  In the bow, the silhouette of the windlass rolls, rises, falls, rolls, rises, falls. With each rise, its head soars on the southern skyline, with each fall, it shudders. Again the figure rises on the sky, and the ship gathers, bumping and creaking with old strains. On the wave’s crest, in the beam wind, dry wisps of rigging fly at a sharp angle to the ship’s direction; they point northwest by west, toward Yucatán.

  The figure falls.

  A hollow boom, a wash of seas; the tinware in the galley rings.

  Raib points at Byrum.

  Dem Yankees gone to change de ways of de whole island! Sweet Christ, an honest mon can’t hardly find a fish no more along de island, dey so many of dem tourist boats foulin de sea! And de mon greasin de skids for dem is nobody else den Desmond Eden!

  Raib stamps into the deckhouse, then reappears in the narrow doorway. He has knocked his straw hat off, baring a white line under his scalp. His breath is harsh and his voice ugly. He stoops to pick up his hat.

  Copm Desmond! Oh, dere was a time it weren’t like dat, I tellin you! A coptin were one of de island’s best, he were not some goddom mongrel fella dat has to hide out down amongst de cays or dey put him in jail! No, mon! De worst of de island’s men in dem days was a better mon den plenty dat I got sittin here dat calls dereself a crew.

  Raib wipes his pale forehead and replaces his hat, repressing a bad smile. He looks his men over, then goes forward to the wheelhouse.

  Athens and Byrum hoot into their hands.

  Oh, mon. He say he hate Desmond for sellin out de island to de Yankees, but dat ain’t de reason—

  Mon, dey both pirates. Desmond talk de same way about him.

  De reason is, dey two from de same pod. Copm Andrew Avers were not loyal to his family, and it were knowed to be a fact dat dis Creole woman had dis bush child by Copm Andrew—

  Ssh! Not so loud, mon! (pause) Who tell you dat tale, Athens?

  Desmond told me it! When he were drunk! He say, Bein an outside child don’t bother me. De one thing in dis life dat I ashamed of is havin de same blood as dat high-minded bastard!

  Byrum whoops.

  Dat could be, mon, dat could be.

  Oh, mon, dey both pirates! De only difference is, Desmond admit it.

  Yah, mon! People sayin dat when Copm Andrew give her to Desmond, dis one here sot fire to de old Clarinda just to get his share of de insurance.

  Well, Byrum, I do not believe dat Copm Raib would set fire to de Clarinda, for she were de Avers family vessel—

  Will? What de hell you think paid for dem new diesels?

  A silence.

  Old Doddy. (pause) He treat me pretty fair so far.

  Oh, yes. He not a hard fella to deal with until he got you where he want you; he very polite in his speech and all like dat. Dem West Bay pirates, dat be dere little way. Very agreeable. But you cotch more turtle den dey do, dey don’t forgive dat—don’t talk to you next mornin. No, mon. Oh, dey very agreeable so long as you leave de road clear for dem. (coughs) Raib ain’t de only one.

  Athens fingers the top button of his shirt, coughs again.

  One time I was comin home on another vessel with a good cargo of turtle, we was way out dere north of Swan Island and broke down. And we fiddled and filed for a couple of days, and could not fix her. So dis was into de month of September, and dere was a hurricane reported down around de Windward Islands someplace, so we got on de radio for help. So de first to show up dere was another turtle boat, goin north. Well, dat West Bay coptin dat Byrum dere knows very well, he took a look into de situation, and he tell us den dat he would not take us in tow. No, mon. Say towin was too much strain on his engines. He offered to take de men off, but de vessel and her cargo could go to hell. Dis way, see, dere would be one less vessel in competition on de turtlin grounds. So we refused to abandon de vessel, and he was gettin set to leave us right dere in de way of de storm when de Administrator got him on de radio and told him if he abandon us before another vessel come to our assistance, den he better not come home to Cayman hisself. Dere was dis freighter comin, see. Well, by Christ you should had heard how he bitched at dat. He was hollerin dat dere was a hurricane on de way, and dat he had dis perishable cargo! (spits) Mon! I hope I get dat bastard in a tight spot one day. Cause dat were de first time any mon ever told me dat a turtle life were worth more den my own!

  Modern time, mon. Every mon for hisself. Learn dat from school days.

  Oo, mon. (coughs) I heard plenty in dis life dat I didn’t like to hear, but never did I heard dat a turtle life were wort
h more den my own.

  The gale wind on the port beam brings sheets of spray over the rails. In the ocean sun, the wet rust glitters. Sea minerals driven into the oaken deck have cured it hard, wood and iron becoming one, glinting with brine.

  Truth. Dey is very hard-hearted fellas. I knowed one coptin dat got vexed cause he was asked by another vessel to drop off a ranger at Cay Gorda, and dat ranger happened to be de coptin’s very own brother. So he said, How in de hell could I be responsible to collect dat mon if a storm come down, and him settin on dat rock dat is ninety miles north of Miskita Cay, and awash in time of storm? So I thought dat dis coptin meaned dat he would never risk his own brother into dat situation, but dis were not it at all; he just wanted a legal paper from dat owner sayin he were not responsible for de ranger’s loss of life, y’see. Once he got dat paper, he would had dropped his brother off in hell.

  Maybe he had more brothers den he knowed what to do with—

  Dat could be, mon. Dat could be.

  Latitude 18: the ship rolls south toward Central America.

  Athens is yanked by the old wheel; he is half dozing. Raib and Brown stand at opposite ends of the new wheelhouse, looking down into the engine room. Will is perched on the slanted seat of the port catboat, caulking its seams. From the main cargo hold, Speedy, Byrum and Vemon heave up turtle nets, log floats and chunks of fossil coral used as net anchors. On deck, Wodie and Buddy stack the chunks on port and starboard side.

  I thinkin dat dese old rocks was ballast. Call dem kellecks, huh?