Far Tortuga Page 6

  Green turtle very mysterious, mon.

  Yah. But Copm Allie say he don’t believe dat one thirty-second of what leaves de beach at Turtle Bogue ever makes it.

  De most of dem never makes it to de water.

  Dass it. All kinds birds and rats and wildcats, jaguars, y’know, and dogs, and what dey calls ringtails—all dem vermin comes out de swamps and jungles dat lays just behind dat beach, and wild hogs, too, dey say—all of dat is swarmin de beaches, and de few dat slips past de vermin got to scromble through dat big surf dere, which is one of de worst in all de world, and dem dat gets past de breakers, dey got to deal with all de sharks and fish in de deep water, and de mon-o’-war birds pickin at’m from de top when dey surfaces to get dere breath. In de mornin time when dose young ones dat come out from de night is restin in de water, dat mornin de sky is littered with birds. Mon-o’-war birds. De boobies don’t grob dem so much, but de mon-o’-war do. Dey millions of birds dere. Dat mornin de sea is covered with baby turtle and de sky is black with birds, just black with mon-o’-war birds, swoopin down. Dey is very few dat gets away. Oh, very few!

  Oh, I like to see dat sight! Dat is a sight dat I would like to see!

  Millions of birds at Turtle Bogue dere in September. In de time of de hatchin of de green turtle, dat old empty coast is a sight to see: dat black sand and dat ugly sea, and dat sky black with big black birds in all dere millions, and de black jungle layin dere behind.

  Mon, oh mon. You seen all dat?

  I tellin you, it ain’t me seen it; it were a fella dat were known firsthand to Copm Allie!

  The men fall silent; Raib is standing at the edge of light.

  Well, it a pity dat dat kind of mornin ain’t people’s first experience of dis life. I mean to say, lookin over dis crew, I think people had ought to start out with de same chance in life—one out of thirty-two. Dat take care of most of de goddom Sponnish and Jamaicans.

  You be de one in your thirty-two, huh, Copm Raib?

  Oh, I make it, okay! (laughs) It all of yourselfs dat you got to worry about.

  Byrum heaves to his feet. He goes to the leeward rail to scrape his plate, brushing the Captain closer than is necessary. When Raib half turns, gazing after him, Byrum ignores him; he speaks loudly from the rail, unbuttoning his fly.

  Oh, yes! Dey very few lives to tell de tale! And dem few dat makes it disappears. Ain’t no mon ever seen a baby turtle de first year. Disappears, mon. Vanish. De first ones dat you see, dey go five pound or better, look like a dish. (pause) Dat right, Copm Raib?

  As the men turn one by one to watch, Raib slaps at his sleeve where Byrum brushed him.

  Mon dat know all dat much about turtle, dat is a valuable mon. I s’prised dey let you off de A.M. Adams.

  Byrum, pissing, calls over his shoulder.

  Never let me off—dey fired me! (buttoning) We all gets fired now and den in life.

  So you say den: I ain’t had much experience of it. De onliest time in all dis life I ever got fired off a job was on a United Fruit vessel out of Bluefields, and de other quartermaster were Desmond Eden. He were smugglin arms cause we rerouted to Colombia; he had dem hid under de deckhouse floor. I was not into de deal, so I was innocent, but dey grob me all de same. You call dat justice? I mean to say, Desmond frig me good!

  Copm Desmond Eden! After all dat fella done, all de chances dat he took, and de money made, he right back down here in de Cays where he begun!

  Dat de most awfullest mon in Caymans. He still owin me two hundred dollars for dat sharkskin, but it worth dat and more just to be rid of him. He a good worker, I say dat for him—dat mon dere ain’t afraid of work. But nobody give him a job no more; it jail where he belong.

  Well, Desmond generous, I say dat—

  Generous, you said? By God, I never seen dat. He had his woman shiftin along, beggin and stealin, even when he had money. Call dat borrowin—done dat to my wife. So Ardith told Desmond woman something dat she didn’t like to hear, and I was very pleased with how she hondled dat part of de motter—

  If she lose Raib’s money, she lucky she still alive. Raib treat dat poor woman so bad, she so scared of him, she don’t know if she comin or goin. And dass de second wife, y’know—wore out de first one.

  Some fellas, you got to get’m to de place where you can hondle dem. Don’t do dat, you got trouble. It like Honduras (groans): dey beat me up! I got such a floggin down dere in dat drydock, it were terrible. I got a floggin! (grins) One good thing about it: when I left down dere, I got away owin three hundred dollars and maybe eighty from de amount dat dey had wanted to steal from me. Dey left me go with de promise dat I would pay dem, but I told’m—I sent back a message with de Daydream—dat dey would have to come to Grand Cayman to receive dat money. In de Court of Justice! I see dem fellas in de Court of Justice!

  As Raib laughs, a wave catches the rudder, twisting the wheel from Vemon’s grasp. The ship yaws around into a trench, falling broadside to the seas; she is smacked hard—whump!—before she rights herself, and the men bawl as a wall of spray crashes across them.

  Vemon!

  The ship pitches down the face of the next wave, roaring propellers hoisted clear out of the water. The old ropes that secure the boom part under the strain of the ship’s labor, and before the leaping figures can secure it, the boom crashes back and forth over the deck amidships, and the block-and-tackle flying at its tip cracks the wood framing that supports the upright exhaust stack on the port engine. When the unsupported weight of the long stack breaks it loose from its elbow at the manifold, the engine room fills suddenly with smoke.

  Figures surround the engine hatch. Below, Brown’s form moves through the gloom, in a bad light. As the ship rolls, and the open manifold pours smoke into the hold, Brown fits and tinkers.

  Dat what I call a engineer, mon—how he stay down dere?

  Look like he in hell!

  Byrum stares out at the ocean dark, quickly turns back again.

  We could be dere, too, pretty domn quick—no goddom fire equipment. Oh, dis a bad trip, mon!

  Dat is some hombre, dat is! Don’t even shut de motor off! Hondle dat hot pipe dat way, and eat dat smoke!

  Maybe it all dat diesel in de food—got so he need it!

  Well, he finished—look at dat! Come up, den, Brownie!

  Startled, the engineer looks up at the faces that ring the engine hatch. He stands there a moment, angling his sombrero, then goes slowly to the ladder and climbs out. He accompanies the men to the galley, where he accepts a plate of food and begins to eat. When his mouth is full, he looks up, smiles, and suddenly stops smiling. He has a round head and tawny eyes that search the other faces for a clue.

  You from Sponnish Honduras, huh?

  No, mon. Woman dere.

  Where you home den?

  La casa? (shrugs) Barranquilla?

  Well, what you do down dere in Roatán? You engineer? Do any farmin like Speedy do?

  I no farmer, hombre! (spits) No, mon. Pescador. Little bit mechanic work. Little bit common labor. Little bit everything: chiclero. Little bit barberin. (pause) Little bit soldierin. (grins suddenly) La Violencia!

  Where was dat?

  Brown nods toward the south.

  Colombia.

  Dat where your people at? Colombia? You from Old Providence or de mainland?

  Brown says nothing. As he chews, a bean works its way out of his mouth and falls to the deck between his broken shoes.

  You gone to go back dere to Roatán?

  Es posible. Es January ahora, no?

  April.

  April?

  Brown stops chewing and looks suspiciously from face to face.

  Entonces—abril, mayo, julio, septiembre. Dat three month? I go back over dere three month.

  A silence.

  Will? Give us dat tale about de Majestic and Copm Steadman.

  No, mon. Dat de back time now, I tryin to forget dat.

  Will? You shamed of dat some way?

  Will gazes
awhile at Athens.

  Well, I know you never be ashamed. But I thinks about de shipmates dat we left behind onto dat vessel, and dere faces lookin out at us over de rail dere. I tell you something, I gone to remember dat right to my grave. Every man of dem was silent; nobody said a word. But dere was one boy dere dat give us a kind of wave …

  Will raises his hand vaguely, still looking at the deck, then raises his head to gaze at the men’s faces.

  I gone to have dat boy’s wave with me on de day I die.

  5 A.M.

  Black waves, turning gray.

  Wodie, at the wheel, stops humming and clears his throat. He pitches his voice low.

  Copm? I seein lights dere, Copm. Off de starb’d beam.

  How you know I was awake?

  Raib appears in yellowed undershirt, scratching his crotch. He considers Wodie, then turns toward the dark horizon.

  Ain’t no beacons in dis ocean—dem is runnin lights. Vessel must be comin out de back of Alligator. No turtle dere, nothin but sharks, so dat must be Desmond, sneakin around. (spits over the rail) You head west, hit de banks about daylight, we be just right.

  The Eden turns downwind, toward the southeast edge of Gorda Bank. At sunrise she is on the banks again, running south-southwest toward the northern edge of Alargate Reef.

  Raib replaces the canvas-and-lard baits with strips of flying fish. The silvery fish, attracted by the naked light over the engine hatch, have come aboard during the night. Squatting at the taffrail, he sews strips of fish to hooks with a sail needle, notching the baits to make them tail more naturally in the water. His thick hard lumpy fisherman’s hands move gently, and though it is dead, he talks softly to the wild-eyed fish as if to calm it.

  Fly too high, darlin, you fly too high.

  He laughs his deep accumulating laugh, and his broad back quakes beneath the weathered shirt.

  The Eden rides easily on the following wind, her jib and foresail taut. The trolling lines, hitched to the stanchions, sail out over the wake, and the baits, flashing at the surface, dart and hurry in the morning sea. Soon the fish rise; both lines go taut with a small thump and are hauled in hand over hand, skidding and cutting across the wake as the fish run.

  Three kingfish, a Spanish mackerel, four barracuda fly up out of the sea; they slap and skitter on the deck. A barra with black spots and a black dorsal snaps at the bare legs and Athens smacks it with a marlin spike across the head. A glaze on the gelatin eyes: the pupil dims.

  The barracuda shivers and lies still.

  Blood all over de deck! Hit dat fish cross de top of de head, mon, not in de gill part! Even de boy know better den dat!

  Will, I gone get dat bastard fore he get me, dass my policy!

  Well, grob a bucket den and swab dat gurry off fore it get sticky!

  Listen to dis fella! Soon de Coptin out of sight, he show us who de boss!

  I de mate, mon! You don’t believe dat, den wait see who get de mate’s half-share!

  Nemmine, Will, you a good fella. Dem as say you so stubborn and stupid don’t know you as good as we do.

  We gone eat dat barra with de spots? Dey say dem spots is poisonous.

  Me, I eats de spots, throw away de rest. Next to stripes, de thing I like de best in life is spots.

  Laughing, Athens tosses a fresh bait to the sea.

  Well, Athens, a mon get domn sick on poison fish!

  It de fishenin ground, not de fish. Dere dat famous place long by West Bay Beach, where de fish poisonous—not only de barra. De jack and de rockfish and all of dem.

  No, mon. De only where dere is poison fish is on dat bank eight, nine miles west de island—dat is de famous place. Something dat dey eat dere turn de jack a bad-lookin black color. Dem few poison fish at West Bay Beach and over dere at Northwest Point is drifted in off de Cayman Banks. Dat right, Copm Raib?

  So you say, den. But one time goin along dere I see pompano close inshore, so I toss dem a bait, pick up five, six. Dat were de worst job I ever done—near killed half of de whole family.

  Mon, you should had tested dem. Throw a piece on de ant hill, see if de ants grob it. If ants walks away from a piece of fish, den you best walk away yourself, cause de ants know.

  Another way, you boil de fish, den you put a piece of silver into de meat. If dat coin turn to black, den you know something wrong.

  Mon, you know something goddom wrong already! Dem dass rollin on de floor, dey don’t need no goddom old ants to tell dem dat dey eat poison fish!

  I sayin now, if you was suspicious of dat fish, den you …

  Brown squats on a blue fuel drum. His knees are level with his ears, and the tips of his rawhide chin strap dangle down over the drum rim. He is picking his gold teeth, eye rolling.

  Near the scuppers, Speedy guts the kingfish. He too is squatting on his heels; the black muscles of his calves and forearms bunch and ravel. With one quick slash he splits the fish from gills to vent, then hacks the head off, chattering rapidly to himself.

  Speedy can cut, mon! If he can’t do nothin else dis boy can cut!

  He holds up a fistful of bright guts and laughs.

  Oh, Speedy a hard nigger, mon.

  The silver fish have turned gray-white.

  Speedy lops the pectoral fins with quick deft flicks. Running the knife point along under the spine, he scrapes out the air sac, then sloshes a bucket of salt water into the cavity; the water floods across the deck, carrying the gurry toward the scuppers. He rests a moment, running his hand down the long gleaming flanks of mother-of-pearl, then skins the fish, paring scales and skin together in small silver sections.

  Yah, mon, Speedy-Boy can cut. Learned dat from school days.

  The barracuda is filleted and cut in strips, which are salted and spread on the galley roof to dry.

  Brown, motionless on the blue fuel drum, farts.

  Starboard!

  STARBOARD!

  Sou’west and steady!

  STEAD-DAY!

  Rice and johnnycake.

  I never been down Speedy way. Plenty from Caymans dere, dey say, went down in times gone back. All through de islands, down to Old Providence, and all along de Sponnish Coast. Corn Islands, Bluefields. Bragman’s, dat de Sponnish calls Puerto Cabeza. A lot dem Boddens, dey from Coxon’s Old Cay, in de Bay Islands.

  Copm Steadman Bodden, dat was coptin of de Majestic, I believe he born down dere. Copm Steadman were a colored mon. I mean to say, he were not real dark, but he had bad hair.

  Hear dat? Some Raib own chil’ren got bad hair—

  Well, I don’t know dat Copm Steadman you speakin about, but we gots black Boddens in Roatán, no doubt about dat—I one of dem. We dere in Roatán since 1836—learn dat from school days.

  Yah, mon. We gots black Boddens in Caymans, too, dat don’t admit it. Plenty dem Boddens got bad hair, ain’t dat right, Vemon? Vemon mother dere, she a Bodden. But he go by de name of Evers. Used to be Avers, but in times gone back de black side of de family took to spellin dereselves Evers, dat right, Vemon? (grins) Which color you is, Vemon?

  Goddom it, Copm Raib, you lookin at me, ain’t you?

  Very difficult to make you out—maybe dat just dirt I seein dere.

  Shit!

  You got a terrible bad mouth on you, Vemon. I very glad we not related.

  Speedy bangs the rice pot hard with his wood ladle.

  Well, dey ain’t no two ways about Speedy, mon—I nigger to de bone. Give you some rice dere, Buddy?

  No, thank you.

  Dat boy seasick again, goddom it.

  Well, dat wind cuttin, Copm Raib—it plenty rough. My first trip, I was so green—

  Dis ain’t his first!

  He be okay. Dat right, Buddy? How you doin, boy? Nothin to say?

  Westering.

  Byrum relieves Will.

  The Eden coasts the northern edge of Half Moon Reef, and the sea color changes from indigo to aquamarine to emerald.

  Raib climbs to the crosstrees of the foremast, where he s
tands upright at the crotch of gaff and mast. He holds the mast with his right hand and the shrouds with his left, spread-eagled on the wind, hair blowing, squinting at long ridges of white surf where the wind drives seas across the coral. He points into the north, lets his arm fall; a moment later he raises his palm. Will cries Raib’s signals to the blind helm; the helmsman echoes them.

  Port!

  PORT!

  Steady!

  STEAD-DAY!

  Steady, Byrum!

  STEAD-DAY!

  The ship goes down along Old Pointer Reef to the west end of Half Moon, then heads due south toward Logwood Cay. The shallow banks are roiled by days of wind, but from the crosstrees can be seen dark smudges of the coral heads below the surface. The banks near Logwood Cay are in the lee of Half Moon, and here the water clears.

  Can’t cross to Cape Gracias dis afternoon—no, mon.

  Den we lost a day’s fishenin.

  We lost dat when he lost de longitude at Gorda Bank.

  The puffs of green in the hot tropic sky to the southeast are the Savanna Reefs, called by the turtlers Serrarers.

  See dere, Speedy? De Majestic layin out dere still.

  The Captain perches in the crosstrees, bare feet swinging. When four olive-colored porpoise roll up along the hull, he skins down the rigging and runs for the bow, grabbing up a long boat pole as he goes. He bends a light line to the pole, wraps the bitter end around his wrist, and practices harpoon throws at the porpoise.