Authors: Peter Matthiessen
Far Tortuga (4 page)
Byrum straightens up.
No
cook
?
ASK ONE OF DEM TO RIG A LANTERN, AND LOOK AT DAT! TWO OF DEM DOIN IT, AND A THIRD ONE LOOKIN ON!
We tryin to figure dis arrangement you got here, Copm—
Nemmine dat! It go fine if de mens know dere job! But we ain’t never gone to sail if you fellas hang around back here!
Propeller done now, Copm!
The Captain turns to glare at Will.
Heave up de anchor, den! We don’t get underway, we gone lose a day’s fishenin on de banks, and de season gettin away from us already! Go on dere, Buddy! You fella Brown, turn dem engines over, till we see de vibration! Wait now! Get dat boat aboard of here!
Speedy has brought the catboat alongside. Pulleys lowered from foremast and boom are hooked to ring bolts in the catboat’s bow
and stern; they shriek as the boat is hoisted from the water. Byrum holds her clear of the hull by bracing an oar against the thwarts, careening the boat well over on her side so that her keel is high enough to clear the rails as she is swung inboard and lowered to the deck. The sun glistens on the green algaic slime that fouls her bottom. The boat is lashed down on her side, keel outboard, to conserve deck space.
Get on dere, Buddy! Get on dat windlass with de rest!
Copm Raib? Reportin for duty, Copm Raib!
Whirling, Raib bangs into Vemon, who is pitching up and down the deck. Vemon retreats. The Captain follows.
I reportin to work here, Copm Raib!
What you got into dat shirt?
Raib shoots his hand into Vemon’s shirt and jerks the bottle out; they watch a button roll on edge across the deck.
Copm Raib—
Raib hurls the bottle out over the harbor.
Goddom fool! Ain’t you fool enough already without dat?
Vemon trembles. Fingering his shirt, he shakes his head violently back and forth, eyes closed.
No, brother! I goin back ashore! Copm Raib? Now hear me, brother—I
needs
dat to tide me over! I can’t sail with you! You gots to put me ashore!
Vemon abandons his shirt; his hands wave, finger bones spread. Raib grasps his scrawny arm and propels him aft down the companionway and into the deckhouse.
In dis goddom lot I got two drunkards, one thief, and five idiots, dass what I got!
The crew mutters.
Well, he lucky he got
dat
much, flyin up de way he do—
One of us got to be thief and idiot both, cause countin de boy dey only seven here!
Got no cook, Athens say—
The men glance at the Captain’s son, Jim Eden Avers, known as Buddy, a thin-limbed boy of seventeen who wears a long-billed cap on his long head.
Buddy looks away.
The windlass is an old-time oak-and-iron barrel drum cranked by hand levers. Byrum and the ragged man called Brown pump the port lever, Speedy and Athens Ebanks the starboard. As the heavy anchor chain clanks aboard, the mate, Will Parchment, rakes it clear of the windlass with an iron hook. In oversized blue pants, Buddy bends forward, as if he were helping, but there is nothing for him to do. His finger trails across the windlass baseplate:
LUNENBURG FOUNDRY CO
.
… Lunenburg? De
Bluenose
, mon! Lunenburg, Novy Scotia! Dat were de home port of de
Bluenose
!
Dat be a good name for Vemon—Blue Nose!
De
Bluenose
! Dat were de most famous of all de fishin schooners, mon! Won all de races! And dis vessel dat you standin on, she modeled after her! Dis vessel, and de
Goldfield
, and de
Lydia Wilson
, and den de
A.M. Adams
! De spoon bow—
Will straightens, pointing toward the south shore of the town.
No, mon. All dem vessels was built by Elroy Arch right dere behind dat grape tree where I pointin at, and dey were modeled after de old
Noonan
. De
Angeline Noonan
, dat were brought here in 1932. And de
Noonan
were a Gloucesterman, off de Grand Banks!
Will, de
Noonan
were in de
Bluenose
style!
Noo
nan!
Blue
nose! Out of
Lunen
burg!
Call it Goony Burg, de way dey make dis windlass … fuckin mon-killer.
The anchor looms and washes free. In the white marl sliding off the fluke, a polychaete worm, transparent, reflects a sun-spot in its blood; at the surface it writhes once and is snatched by a long houndfish, drawn by the roil in the harbor water.
PUT DEM ENGINES INTO GEAR!
Oh, de fact dat de
Noonan
were built after de lines of de
Bluenose
, and she were
American
-built, y’know—dat was supposed to mean something. (
grunts
) In dem days America was so far away dat dey thought it must be something grand. De
Noonan
sunk six years after she got here, and de Yankee owners seen quite clear dat it were only Cayman care and Cayman knowledge dat was keepin her afloat in dem six years. Dat goddom Yankee oak never stood up; her timbers was rotten from her keelson to her waterway! Dat is why de next boat dey had built was built in Cayman. Cayman mahogany. Dey went to work and built a vessel for Caymans dat were very well suited to de purpose of de Grand Banks.
No good, huh?
Well, I wouldn’t say dat much, Speedy. De Cayman vessel is built very well. Used mahogany, and den ironwood, fiddlewood, pompero—all dem good old woods dat used to grow right in de island. (
suddenly excited
) I seen dis vessel slickin along at thirteen knots! Thirteen!
Ain’t much of a harbor in Cayman, from what I seen. Ain’t like French Harbour. In de Bay Islands.
In Cayman, Speedy, if a heavy storm strike dere, you be very lucky if you save your vessel. Dat place in de North Sound, dat de only place. Deep water right up to de mangroves. (
whistles
) Oh, mon. It astonishin to know de quantity of wind dat’s in a hurricane, and what a hurricane can do …
Athens Ebanks sinks down on the wheel cable housing and takes the spokes of an ancient wooden helm. Like Vemon, he is thin and soiled. He coughs constantly, and sucks cheap cigarettes. The nostrils flare in a nose that looks pushed back; he has buckteeth and a weedy mustache. He wears his cap so that its bill sticks straight out to one side of his head, and his shirt, undershirt, baggy pants all flap and fly, as if he were coming apart—even his shoes flap—but
invariably his collar is tight-buttoned, as if this one button held him together. Whenever possible he is asleep, slumped, seated, sprawled, coiled, curled or prone.
Beside him, Speedy gazes at the shore; he turns a small brown wrinkled fruit in his black hand.
In dis season I got plantains. In Roatán. Banana. Plantains. Yams. In de Bay Islands. I got it made, mon. And I don’t have to go lookin for my job. Ever’body after Speedy, cause he fast, mon, very very fast … (
sighs
) How you feelin?
Okay. Pretty good.
Can’t leave it behind you on de dock, I guess.
I feelin better.
Well, dass very fine. Like dis nice niece-berry? Dis a very fine little fruit. Come from your own island. Come from de island of Grand Cayman.
Um-hm.
In de Bay Islands, call dat sapodilla. From de dilly tree.
FORWARD ON DE PORT! BACK ON DE STARBOARD!
3:34
P.M
.: the
Lillias Eden
turns slowly in a circle. The starboard engine is shifted to neutral, then forward gear, and water spins along the hull. The vessel makes headway, moving offshore.
YOU, WILL! AND BYRUM! RIG DE FORES’L!
Dark coral heads sink away into the deeps, and the water changes from emerald to dark green.
Port, Athens!
PORT!
Due south and steady!
STEAD-DAY!
The harbor, no more than a shallow bight on the western shore, flattens out against the island as the pastels of Georgetown drop away. The
Eden
trudges down to Southwest Point, where the coast bends eastward. At Pull-and-Be-Damned, the black bone of a wreck bursts from bright surf on the fringing reef.
Stowaway! Copm Raib? We got a stowaway!
The Captain goes forward to the fo’c’s’le hatch.
Ain’t us he hidin from. COME OUT DEN, WODIE! No, mon, ain’t us. He hidin from de constables of Bodden Town. Want
dis
fella for murder. (
grins
) Dass de kind of crew you gets dese goddom days, yah mon! A thief, two drunkards and a murderer—all de rest is merely idiots!
The men come forward one by one.
A figure emerges from the hatch. Though he is black, the man’s hair and skin are whitish; in the twilight he looks silver. He dusts himself, and a mist of white blows away on the sea wind; he laughs a high sweet laugh. In the dry whiteness of his face, which has caked where he has sweated, his mouth looks raw and wet. He is barefoot, in clownish pants too small for him and a bright checkered vest cut from coarse sacking. One eye is blind.
See dat, Copm Raib? I makin myself a pretty shirt out some dem old flour sacks where I was layin! Passin de time, y’know!
The Captain grunts.
Maybe some you fellas knowin Wodie Greaves—he one dem duppies from down East End. (
winks at Wodie
) And dis is what calls dereself a crew! Dey ain’t much, Wodie, but I intendin to make turtlers out of dem, so don’t go murderin too many in de night!
Wodie Greaves comes forward. In an unlined face that has not aged, the good eye is round and open and the smile is new.
How do. I pleased to meet you.
The men do not take Wodie’s hand. Wodie turns toward the Captain, who is laughing.
Now, Copm Raib, maybe dese fellas do not know dat I am no murderer, and do not know dat you could be teasin dem along. De constables of Bodden Town, dey only wishin to take me into custody to protect me from dem dat wished me hurt. But I sayin to myself, now, Wodie Greaves, you might’s well sail down to de Cays, make a penny to get on with life till times go better.
