Far Tortuga (20 page)
Authors: Peter Matthiessen
An old duffel is slung down to the
Eden
, and three turtle are transferred. Desmond tosses a big old-fashioned knife to Raib, blade first; Raib dodges it, and the heavy blade gouges the deck.
CAST OFF DERE, WILL!
You kind to speak us, Copm Raib! Bye, Copm Andrew! Hear me dere? Goodbye, old mon!
DUE SOUTH AND STEADY!
STEAD-DAY!
LASH DAT DOMN CHAIR TO DE MAST, FORE HE ROLL OVER!
The
Eden
falls off toward the south. As Bobel sinks astern, two long dark skiffs appear, bursting free of broad sheets of spray, then vanishing in the smoky chop. Though they look too small for the open sea, the boats are driven at full speed, banging across the wind in white explosions.
Now they veer toward the
Eden
.
Dere some of Desmond’s pan-heads!
Reapin bird eggs! It dat time of year
de crazy way dey go!
de way dey go! I venture dey spoilt de turtlin ground all de way south to Dead Man Cay!
Three silhouettes in each skiff are standing. On the green sea the figures rise and fall; black arms gesticulate.
We gone to speak dem?
Speak
Jamaicans
? NO!
Slowly the skiffs gain on the
Eden
; they slam violently into the seas, flanking her wake. In the skiff to starboard, a naked figure in street hat and dark glasses sways and careens as he points at his mouth, points at his belly; he brandishes a bottle, points at it, then at the
Eden
.
Must be dey hungry, mon! Want to give us rum!
Smell dat rum, Vemon? Dey know you here!
The skiff comes grinding alongside, sliding and skidding in the wash. A line is tossed, and Speedy grabs it. Snatching the line from Speedy, Raib slings it free.
PAN-HEAD NIGGERS! GET DE HELL AWAY!
The black man in the street hat shouts: his violent mouth looks square. When he slams his hat into the bilges, his hair shoots out in spikes all over his head.
RAS CLOT!
A hurled bottle smashes on the
Eden
’s hull. The figure in street hat and dark glasses, upright, shrieking, slashes at the sky with a machete. The others make obscene signs; they screech. Over the motors of the
Eden
, in the cross wind, torn voices rise and are blown away.
BUMBO!
BUMBO CLOT!
AI-EE KANAKEE TUTTLE-FUCKAHS
The skiff to starboard falls astern, and the other comes up beside it, tossing in the wake. The six figures gaze after the
Eden
, burnt black on the white sky.
They rise and fall.
Due south and steady.
From the chair lashed to the mast, the old man can observe his son’s approach.
Raib whispers.
Copm Andrew? Can’t talk to me, Papa? (
pause
) Can’t ye hondle yourself, den?
Beneath the thatch hat, the eyes in the brown skull are round and bright, and the mouth is firm. The old man is not absent and not present; he seems intent on a voice in the far distance.
You had too much ambition, Papa. To sail with dat domn mongrel fella—
The old hands twitch on the white conch.
You waitin to hear me say I never burned her? You waitin to hear dat?
Raib falls silent. He turns his back upon his father, gazing all around the empty sky.
Wodie sits on the galley roof, picking his feet. Hanging from his fingertips in the galley door, Speedy stares astern.
Don’t like dose Jamaica fellas, den.
Well, out to East End, we don’t bother so much about dem, cause mostly dey hangs around in de big towns. Georgetown. Jamaicans come as poor as what de old people call Job’s turkey dat only has one feather, but when dey gets around with de girls and what not, dey gets high-minded: dey finds dereselves better den what is in Cayman. Den you hear de Caymanian call de Jamaican pan-head sonofabitch, something like dat. (
laughs
) And dey calls us kanakees, cause we not s’posed to be so civilized as on dat island.
You blacker den dem or what?
No, mon! We ain’t so black as dey are!
Speedy wipes Wodie’s black ankle with one finger, then inspects the fingertip.
Color don’t matter in Caymans! No, mon! We a democracy!
Well, dass very fine. Only how come
you
de one dat sleepin in de sail locker stead of de deckhouse?
Cause I a East Ender!
Cause you a East Ender.
Speedy?
Speedy returns into the galley shadows.
Speedy? Y’see, Speedy, in de days of de old sailin boats, de schooners used to go to Lucea and Port Antonio, Sav-la-Mar, Kingston Town and all dat to sell turtle. So de Jamaicans dere had a way of teasin de Caymanians, dey called all Caymanians Uncle John-John. Hey, Uncle John-John, Johnny-Whyna, Johnny-Tuttle! Johnny-Whyna, dat how dey say Johnny-
Cake
. So dem old wind coptins, dey didn’t want nothin to do with dese Jamaican boys around de dock: dey say, Look, mon, ye goddom pee-can Jamaican wharf-rat bastard, ye better get home! And de Jamaican say, Uncle John-John, ye kanakee ras, ye cocksure as dat, I gone break your ass out!
On hands and knees on the galley roof, squealing with laughter, Wodie lowers his head into the doorway to see Speedy’s face. Sitting immobile on the ware chest, Speedy regards Wodie’s one-eyed inverted head without expression. The face hangs in the blue sky. Then Wodie straightens, his grin uncertain, and lies back on the galley roof. Soon his heels thump soft on the gray siding; he is singing.
East-southeast to Edinburgh Reef, across the beam seas of the trades.
Spray, flying clouds, a glint of brine in the hard wood of the decks.
Under the roof of the port companionway, Will and Byrum construct a bunk for Captain Andrew out of the boards used to build cargo racks in the turtle hold.
Speedy is laboring his pots, using the sea spray to help rinse; he works with such style that Buddy, handing him each pot, is an impediment.
At the helm, Athens is coughing. Behind him, Byrum and Vemon work on the broken taffrail.
Wodie, on the galley roof, turns the salt fish.
Raib is in his unfinished wheelhouse, gazing down at the new engines.
Brown is perched on his blue fuel drum, hugging his knees; he stares away to sea, unseeing.
Sharks, mon! See dat cobber knife? Off de port bow—wait, dey down behind de wave—dere! Up again! See something white?
Big
sharks, mon!
something white! Run tell de helm to head her south a little till we see
manta?
Raib climbs the masthead as the engines slow.
Copm Raib?
You see it, Copm Raib?
Copm Raib?
Beneath the surface, off to port, a pale shape seems to grow, gathering and unfolding, lifting and falling on the sparkling swells. Sharks circle at a little distance, the dark fins mute in shining seas. As the ship nears, the fins withdraw beneath the surface. The shape turns as the ship passes, and long shark shadows loom and fade.
Because the
Eden
is broadside to the seas, she is riding heavily, and Raib’s figure, high in the rigging, is black on the veering sun.
Raib? Copm Raib?
—still see it?
Copm Raib—!
