Far Tortuga (31 page)
Authors: Peter Matthiessen
Athens tosses a piece of meat onto the stew pile, then looks up.
I kind of like Ronald, dat way.
He flinches when Raib moves. Raib reaches for the crumpled cigarette pack, but the wind skitters it beneath the catboat. He straightens again, panting.
I s’pose you meanin to steal dat knife from dat old mon? Now give it here!
Give you dis knife?
Now
…?
No
, mon! Not yet!
Athens crouches in the galley door. The big hickory-handled knife lies by his hand. His expression is guarded now as his rage wanes, and there is a twitch of merriment at the corner of his mouth; it twitches wildly as Raib himself begins to shake. Athens’ laugh is a rapid sniggering that makes his nostrils flare; Raib, hooting and squealing, slaps his cupped hand against the mast.
Not yet! Dass de message dat dey
all
givin me—Not yet!
Raib wipes his eyes.
No
, mon! Not yet! he say. (
coughs
) Well, you okay, Athens! I never figure you for dat kind of spirit, boy! (
a fit of coughing
) Mon, oh mon! I guess dey something in dat message dat you give me dere, okay; you got me dere! Don’t motter whether Ronald my child or not, dey is a nigger in de woodpile
some
where! Oh, yes!
Raib rolls forward toward the shrouds. Halfway up the mast, hair crested by the wind, he gazes down at his men, regarding them a moment before speaking. He is still smiling, but the smile has turned.
Brown!
The engineer knocks his sombrero back and gazes at the Captain.
You keepin dat oil pressure too high! Know dat gauge you was askin me about? Well, dis mornin I took a little oil out of her, and right away de hand on dat gauge stop flitterin!
Raib climbs the shrouds to the masthead.
Will! Got to check dese ring bolts up and down de mast; dey workin in dere holes!
Will gets slowly to his feet.
Dey workin in dere holes cause de wood is punky. Dat whole domn mast is punky. (
sighs
) I tellin you, Athens, in dat mon’s younger days, he keelhaul you.
He keelhaul him today, only dis boy got something on him—dat right, Athens?
So you say den, Byrum.
Land o’er! Dere Mahagans!
Reefs and mangrove islands of the Miskito Banks rise from the sea.
Port!
PORT!
Steady!
STEAD-DAY!
Copm Raib? We got cartons for dese boys on Dead Man Bar! We gone to speak dem?
Speak dem den, only keep movin!
The
Eden
rides down between Outer Mohegan and Cayo Muerto. Every little while she changes course, picking her way among the coral heads and shoals. Cayo Muerto is little more than a clump of giant mangrove, taken root on the shallow banks; from the northwest approaches, it shifts like a drifting forest on the sea.
Two miles west of the cay, the
Eden
slows her engines, and as if by signal, a small sailing craft takes wing at the mangrove wall and comes flying down the wind. The shallow banks are choppy, but rather than slack off on the sheet and give up speed, a man high on the weather side of the flying boat scampers to the end of a plank that serves as a makeshift outrigger; in the boat’s silhouette as it bears down upon the
Eden
, the figure seems suspended in midair. Terns part before the boat, then snap together at a point over the sparkling sea where bait fish, pursued, rush to the surface.
Look at de way he slickin along—dat Melgreen Powery!
Raib descends slowly from the crosstrees as his crew lines up along the rail. On come the rangers, waving and yelling, careening in on the
Eden
’s starboard side. In seconds the sail is dropped and a line passed; the rangers swarm aboard.
Come up, come up! Come up, mon, and be hoppy!
How you goin, Melgreen?
Not bad, Byrum. How yourself? Seen Desmond?
Yah, mon! Seen’m at Bobel! Got a pile of pan-heads with’m.
Hoo, boy! Copm Desmond Eden! (
whispers
) Who dat settin on de throne? Dat Copm Andrew?
Yah, mon. Won’t eat. De poor old mon is dyin.
The
Eden
moves slowly on her course, east southeast toward the Blue Channel. The rangers take their cigarettes and messages and cartons of provisions wrapped in burlap; they are so glad to see new faces that they keep yelling all the while they are aboard and after they jump back into their boat.
Okay den, thank you!
Take care dere, Copm Andrew! Best eat something!
You kind to speak us, Copm Raib! We ain’t seen no mon pass dis way since Sat’day gone a week!
Though he has not eaten, and will not lie down, the old man moves easily with the long roll of the ship, and his liverish hands rest lightly on his conch. His mouth is firm, and his wide eyes are clear. Buddy stands behind the heavy chair, trying to see what the old man perceives.
Grandpapa? D’ye see the land? Cayo Muerto?
The old man is still. On his old thatch hat with its round crown there is a stain where in earlier days he had worn some sort of band, but the collar of his khaki shirt is clean. In the low sun of late afternoon, the silver hair over his ears dissolves in filaments of light against the sparkle of the water, and the ear lobes seem illumined from within, as if his skin had gone transparent.
From the companionway behind comes a faint sweet smell of manure. The green turtles lie belly up, each with a neat turd pile by its tail. One breathes its hollow gasp, and Buddy sinks beside it, on his knees.
You watchin us? Dat what Athens say. He say dat you watchin us die.
The turtle watches him, unblinking.
Dark noddies cross the swift colors of the coral bank, toward the cays. The cays astern disintegrate in the sun’s mist.
Vemon and Athens slice, sort and salt the meat.
Calipatoh and calipee!
You got de b’ilin water ready? Bring it here, den! I gone to make turtle stew! Gone to make turtle
stew
, I got to have b’ilin
water
!
Don’t tell me nothin in dat bad voice, nigger. I told you once, I knock you on you ass.
Vemon showin Speedy something he didn’t know to do: make turtle stew! After de first lesson, Speedy do it fastern’ him—dass why dey calls him Speedy!
School days, mon. I learn my speed from school days.
Vemon stuffs meat into a sack, mixing salt in as he goes; Athens takes the rest into the galley.
Oh, he gone to scotch dat meat!
More salt! Got to get salt, you want salt
meat
!
A little brown sugar to put into it, dat be all right.
Brown sugar?
Give a better taste. Different color and better taste.
Crankcase? Well, dat oil got be changed
knots?
dis nigger think
to make dat knot proper, you got to
No.
off to de northward.
Listen! On a night like dis now you can
listen
for turtle. You can hear … No, de reef breakin
red, red, red
Dat reef don’t break no more now den it did
get close up to
green turtle, you can hear dem blowin
know what he doin, but
he doin it wrong.
You think you can do dat better?
I
de one doin de work—
He all right, y’know. Dis mon all right.
de
bring
mon who is called dat way cause he bring home de bacon: den dere is de
sweet
mon, (
laughs
) what she call her
sweet
mon—
Make her feel sweet.
Sweet, mon. Soft and mallow.
through de Caribbean here
galley
pot dere. I servin now.
Clank of tin pots.
Dis week gone have full moon light. Fore dis fortnight halfway done!
Green turtle see dat mesh in de full moon, steer off de nets.
Most de turtle gone south to de Bogue, and de rest too smart for us when de moon full.
April Fool Day, mon.
Fool Day, dass it. Next.
Clink of plates. A cockroach darts along the galley side.
Said I want more meat.
Okay, brother. Wait till we see if Copm Andrew take a little—
Can’t do my work on no little piece like dat.
Brownie, you get any?
Byrum, you can stand dem nets in all dem channels out dere and get turtle.
I know it. De very next two channel out dere—
Dat de last of de meat?
bullas? My woman make dose with ginger. And cornmeal cakes—
Got to do me better’n dat! Dat won’t last me two minutes!
Vemon?
No domn good, y’know. (
silence
) Goddom sure didn’t get enough after my work. (
silence
) What one mon get de next mon ought to get.
Give him de last piece dat I had, and listen to him!
Workin mon. Dat a hell of a thing. Why de one mon get different from me?
You never eat better in your life!
Ain’t nothin on dis bone! I don’t go for dat shit, mon!
Vemon? You cut dat out! No, mon! You not so big as you think you is aboard of here!
I want something to eat! If I work, I want something to eat, to pay for it!
You are not starvin aboard here! You would have to be a hog if you are starvin! You were settin in dat galley today, and you had a pot of rice dere and a big old pot of fish! And de good-for-nothin mon, do you see de way he goin on dere now?
Lot of people gettin better fed den me!
Shut up your mouth! You get more to eat den anyone!
Athens speaks with his mouth full, spitting it on purpose as he talks.
You men eat like hogs! (
laughter
) I don’t know how you men sleep at night, eatin dis rich food!
Nemmine, Athens! Your partner don’t have to go on like dat! No call for dat!
You want porridge, Vemon?
No!
Give Vemon his coffee.
Coffee right dere by he foot.
I NEVER PUT IT DERE!
What you shoutin for, you goddom fool? Shut up!
Vemon rises and walks aft.
He open his mouth just to see if he can frighten people, but de mouth is all dere is … Buddy? Copm Andrew eatin anything?
No, Papa.
Black coffee?
Now I can say, dear, you de worst of your kind
…
hunk of meat and all, and bread, and take de cookin trash and all and mix it right up with de rest—look just like garbage. After dat, he put in dis cake mix. And when he got it all done, he stand back a little ways and look it over, and den he call it a
cake
.
Dat sound like Vemon, okay.
Domn fool. I don’t know how he find his bed. And dat engineer I got, dass another one. I gone to send him home after dis trip. I keep
dat
engineer, I wouldn’t have no engine left at all.
With his plate Brown has climbed onto his fuel drum, where he squats on his heels, knees close to his ears; under his hat, his eyes cannot be seen, but the rhythm of his ear shows he is chewing.
