Far Tortuga Read online

  Will smiles mirthlessly, face cracking.

  Ain’t gone to bother fungo, no mon! (spits again) What you call dis, Speedy? Dese ain’t bullas?

  I hear on de radio about hot doughnuts and coffee makin people hoppy, Mist’ Will, so dat is what you eatin dere, hot doughnuts. I don’t know much about de nut part, but you got plenty dough dere, I tell you dat.

  Wodie, singing, goes aft to relieve Vemon at the wheel.

  … of a dove

  Fly away! Fly away!

  I’d fly a-way-ay, fly a-way-ay

  And be-ee-ee-ee at rest …

  Approaching the galley, Vemon sits down on the bilge pump, arms folded on his chest.

  Bring me my supper, Honduras!

  Speedy leans out of the galley door to gaze at Vemon, who is glaring out to sea.

  I done my day’s work, and now I wants my supper!

  Speedy is hooked to the galley door top by his fingertips, leaning outward between his forearms. He too gazes out to sea. In time, he pushes himself back inside and prepares a plate of food and a cup of coffee. He comes out quietly and offers it to Vemon, who grabs it with exaggerated rudeness.

  Speedy squats down at Vemon’s feet; his expression is calm. Vemon tries to eat, but soon stops chewing.

  Speedy’s finger draws a circle on the deck around Vemon’s plate.

  Eat your supper, nigger. (pause) Dass a very nice supper dat you haves dere, nigger, so I hopes you enjoy it. And you ever talk to me dat way again, and show me dat bad face, I gone to knock you on you black ass.

  Speedy looks up at Vemon for the first time.

  Dass a promise. Nigger.

  Nodding gently, Speedy looks from face to face.

  I a very nice boy, but I don’t take no shit. Anybody give me shit, I gone to move. I gone to travel. Fast. And any mon get in my way gone find out why dey calls me Speedy.

  Dass okay, mon. Best say what you got in your mind.

  I always say de truth—learn dat from school days. If my mother no good, I tell you. Dass right, mon. Say de truth, cause dass de way life go de best.

  Raib wipes his mouth.

  Well, it time to start thinkin where we gone to set our nets. Start for Cape Gracias maybe three in de mornin we won’t hit no reefs before de light, and den we is a very good way along. Maybe we get done registerin at Cape Gracias time to run back out to Cape Bank Shoal, set a few net dere fore de evenin.

  Cape Bank pretty far to de north for dis time of de year.

  Well, we see dat big turtle dis evenin. Got good ground over dere.

  Copm Allie say de turtle small at Cape Bank. Chicken turtle.

  Copm Allie don’t know everything, Byrum!

  You know a coptin better’n him?

  Well, dey ain’t many proper coptins left. Copm Cadian dere on de Lydia Wilson, he was pretty good while he had a boat. Can’t do much without a boat. (begins to grin) But I believe I as good as any as dere is today, I believe I can truthfully say dat. Dey talk about Copm Allie, but he don’t sail down to de cays no more. All de coptins of dat time, dey was some very good coptins, but age is took de upper hand. Oh, yes! Dey in de downward way!

  Raib laughs unabashedly while the men watch him.

  Now Copm Steadman—dat were a real turtler. A real first-class turtler. He were a turtler dat could do everything. Hang turtle nets, which is de first step. Go out dere in de daylight and de net is bunched dere and no turtle, den you hung it wrong. Hangin de net, dat is de first thing.

  Well, pilotin pretty important, Copm. Sot dat net in de wrong place, don’t motter de way it hung.

  I very glad you know dat, Will, you bein de pilot of de port boat.

  Raib starts to laugh again, then frowns.

  In pilotin, a mon must look and he must see. I believe it were somewhere around ’44 when Copm Andrew made dis course with me on de Clarinda. He told me to steer her west-half-north and I steered dat course, and he went down and he sot dat place, and give de turtle hell. And den when we come back in ’62, he say, West by north, and I say, Papa, if you goin back to dat same set, you gone to have to steer west-half-north or eitherwise you not goin dere. So he say, You want to steer dat course, boy, den you steer it! So I steered her west-half-north, and even though de bottom was dark, I put her on de point. Cause I ’membered dat dis place were full of barracuda, and by seein barras come up around de vessel, it give me a very good idea dat I was over de white hole.

  Raib gazes around the circle.

  So I’m tellin you dat a bad memory is a disasterish thing to a person in life. With no remembrance, a mon cannot learn. To me—I’m not makin bragado or anything—but I know every rock out on de banks, like my own dooryard. It were Copm Andrew Avers dat taught me, and come to pilotin, he were de island’s best.

  Come to rum-runnin, he were de island’s best. Dat Clarinda, she were swift, mon—

  Athens winks at Byrum; he clears his throat.

  Copm Andrew Avers! Eighty years of age, and still sailin down here to de Cays as pilot!

  A clink of tin on tin. Raib lays his fork down.

  Who were de fella de other day dat were speakin out for Desmond? Dat you, Byrum? Speakin out for a fella dat would cheat an old mon out of his vessel—

  De Clarinda?

  DE CLARINDA! AND DEN TAKE DAT POOR OLD EIGHTY-YEAR-OLD MON OUT OF HIS DAUGHTER’S HOUSE DAT CAN’T STAND STURDY ANYMORE, AND DE SON OF DAT OLD MON OUT OF DE WAY DOWN IN HONDURAS—

  Raib stops suddenly, gasping for breath: he tries to eat again.

  Your doddy wanted to go bad, Copm Raib. Said every day of idleness was takin ten years off his life—

  No! He were cheated! De Clarinda were a Avers vessel, and look who stole it—Desmond Eden! It a good thing she burned! A very good thing! Desmond had no business with dat vessel! Dat one he call de Davy Jones—dat de vessel for him! Stole dat one from dem poor Cuba refugees dat come in it, dem people were starvin, and he paid dem next to nothin! Put all dat crap on dere, look like a whorehouse!

  A cockroach glints by the galley siding, antennae bending in the wind. Raib stamps at it and misses. The insect withdraws under the rotting wood.

  Copm Desmond! A mon dat would call a vessel Davy Jones, funnin with de bleak ocean in dat manner, dat mon can’t learn nothin from de sea!

  Well, as I was sayin, Copm Allie is de best of de modern time.

  Getting his breath, Raib gazes at Athens for some time. Then he nods a little, and turns back toward Byrum.

  Copm Allie ain’t sailed down to de cays for several years now. And dat generation of turtlin men dat come before Copm Allie, dey was also very gifted in dis fishery. Copm Andrew and Copm Steadman and Copm Millard Conally, and C. C. Bush and many of de rest was all experts on de turtle banks. But you would have to say dat Copm Steadman were as good as Cayman had, one of Cayman’s best dat ever was. Oh, yes. Dey was not anybody sharper den dat old colored mon before his day and since. Will Parchment settin right dere dat sailed on de Majestic—Will can tell you.

  Well, Steadman were a domn wonderful old mon! A very fine old mon. A very fine old mon. Fished turtle all de days of his life!

  Dat old mon were so well gifted in dis fishery, he could sail de coast de way he wanted. Most of de pilots had to climb up to de masthead where de visibility was good for dem. But Steadman sat dere in a chair on deck and got his turtle just de same.

  Yah, mon! De Majestic! Big boat, mon!

  She were not. You old enough to remember her better den dat. But even dem dat remember de Majestic think today dat she were big. Will settin dere will tell you dat she were smaller den dis vessel, but she were corryin a pile of rangers, and now she so famous dat dey think she must be big. (grunts) Everybody think dat de twenty-seven fellas dat were lost dat year was de most ever on de Miskita Cays: dey were not. In 1876, a big hurricane den, dey was sixty-seven lost, and most of de fleet. De Majestic, dat were de biggest loss in de modern time, and she were famous because so many fellas died dat day under a coptin dat had lost his sea
wits.

  … and dat domn half-breed dere, dat call hisself engineer! (spits) Goddom it to hell—

  Nigger?

  A silence.

  Nigger? You best not mess with Brown. No, mon.

  Speedy warnin you, Vemon, so you heed him.

  With Brown dere ain’t no warnin, nigger. (softly) You look down and see something stickin out de ribs, dat be de first warnin dat you get.

  A silence.

  How come you partners with a bad fella like dat?

  Brown not a bad fella and he not a good fella—he don’t know de difference.

  Dass it. More and more like dat dese days, don’t care about nothin cept de next meal, no more den vermin. No ambition. Dey just livin along.

  Dass it. Dey just livin along …

  Brown’s head, yellow-eyed, has appeared out of the engine hatch. His narrow mustachio hooks down sharply at the corners of his mouth, which hangs half open. He does not climb out. As if sensing danger, he withdraws to listen, descending two steps on the ladder, but the peak of his sombrero is still visible. Hearing the silence, he disappears entirely.

  Byrum’s belch makes the others laugh.

  Speakin about de Wilson, and den also remembrance—dey is turtle remembrance. Copm Allie always tell dat tale about dat turtle come home from Caymans to de cays here, to de same rock at Dead Man Bar. Very mysterious.

  Dat ain’t so much. Dere was another dat escape from Key West and come home to de cays here and got caught again—had to come all de way round Cuba and down de Yucatán Channel, seem like.

  Yah. Well, de way Copm Allie tell it, Copm Raib—

  Byrum, I not talkin about Allie! I talkin about C. C. Bush! Dis turtle I speakin about were caught twice by Copm C. C. Bush, White Charley Bush! On de old Annie Greenlaw! (more quietly) I were a boy den. Turtle washed out of de crawls dere in Key West. In a hurricane. Had all dese fish bites on de fins so dey remembered, and dey look on de calipee and found de brand of Charley Bush, cut in dat same season. Now Allie’s turtle come back south from Caymans, but dis green turtle come all of de way from Key West, mon, cross de bleak ocean. To de same rock! All de way round Cabo San Antonio dere in Cuba. To de same rock! Now dat is a fact, mon, dat has been seen many’s de time, dat when it come to navigation, dey ain’t no bird in de world is in de class with de green turtle!

  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.

&
nbsp; 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.