Far Tortuga (33 page)
Authors: Peter Matthiessen
Captain Andrew Avers.
Copm Raib?
The figure of Wodie breaks the moonlight in the deckhouse door. Byrum sits up with a grunt.
Dat you, Wodie? What you wantin?
Raib lies still, his mouth wide, looking stunned.
Copm Raib? H-ss-t!
Raib opens his eyes and shuts his mouth, as a frown gathers; he gazes at the deckhouse ceiling.
It Copm Andrew! He gone!
Raib rises slowly in his bunk.
Dass what dey said de last time. You listen to his heart?
No, mon! Never went near him!
How you
know
, den?
As he speaks, Raib drags his pants on.
I see de fireball! In de hatchway overhead. So I poke my head out, and dat fireball dere by de mast!
Fireball! Never heard about St. Elmo’s fire?
Dey ain’t no storm, Copm, it full-moon light!
Raib goes out onto the deck.
I tellin you, Wodie, you got dis whole crew thinkin you some kind of Jonah. If I’d have known dat your head was filled with trash …
Raib falls silent. Rounding the forepart of the deckhouse, he pauses by the hatch. In the moonlight the bony knees in their worn khaki emerge from the night shadows of the port companionway. The rat retreats.
Ain’t got no white suit, but we got his pockets sewed.
Oh Jesus! You see how dat rat chew his shin?
In the yellow light the old man lies, knees up in rigor mortis. While Will presses on the shoulders, Raib tries to straighten out the legs,
but every time the legs contract, and the high black shoes lift slowly from the deck.
See dat? Dey ain’t no bendin de old fella, he just as cranky as he ever was—domn! Know what we gone do? Put him back on de throne dere and corry him across de water in dat manner. Eitherwise he be layin in de hole with his knees up in dis woman’s way—can’t have
dat
! Got to bury him chair and all!
Daybreak.
Light and sky.
The catboats from the
Eden
cross the anchorage, and a third boat slides out from the silhouette of the
A.M. Adams
. Lashed across the thwarts of the first boat, the dead man’s chair rises and falls against the east horizon. The boats vanish in the shadow of the cay.
Men of the
Adams
and the
Eden
stand on either side of a dark pit, dug east and west. Buddy and Will are on their knees, pushing thin soil back into the hole with shards of board. Captain Andrew, in his chair, lies in the hole, his hat haloed around his head, his hands still folded in his lap, shoes to the eastward. His eyes, half open, are fixed upon branches overhead that flail at the gray sky.
An ant crosses his gray cheek.
Where’s dat old conch shell dat he cherished? Did ye leave it aboard de vessel?
Holding his hat against his chest, Raib coughs to repress a smile.
Not … yet! he say. Dem were de last words of
dis
old fella!
The branches creak.
Copm Andrew Avers! (
pause
) Well, Copm Andrew went and he went and he went, and would not help hisself—wouldn’t hardly rise one hand. But in de end he went away very well. He were not able to give testimony, but he went in peace, and we very hopeful for his soul. Amen.
Raib looks from one face to the other.
Amen.
Amen.
Amen.
Light scent of sweat and mangrove humus. Mosquito whine. Dried blood on a dark arm.
A cough.
At the sad demeanor of the men, Raib frowns, looks shy, tries not to laugh anew. He sees the catboat off the shore: through the twisting trees, an upright figure watches.
Desmond! Come ashore, den!
The figure stays the drifting boat by jamming an oar into the bottom on the downwind side. There is no answer.
Raib scrapes earth into the hole and offers the board to Vemon.
Dis were de finish of a wind coptin, and a very good sailor mon. Sailed down to dese reefs all de days of his life, and now he died here at Miskita Cay! (
turns toward Desmond
) HIS LAST VOYAGE WERE HIS FINISH; DASS WHAT
CORRIED HIM! IN HIS OLD AGE HE HAD TOO MUCH AMBITION; HE DIDN’T THINK OF HIS HEALTH, ONLY HIS WILL TO GO, AND DERE WERE DEM STANDIN READY TO TAKE ADVANTAGE OF HIS OLD AGE! (
more quietly
) Copm Andrew were a born seaman, one of de best. He one of de best seamen were in de island, and an expert on sailmakin; he could take a vessel and rig her from one end to de next. Knowed everything about it, and he learned me all he knew. Andrew Avers were a very good sailor mon.
A tear appears on Will’s dry face.
Oh, yes! A very good sailor mon!
Byrum and Speedy stack the turtles as they are lowered: the blue boat is nearly awash. A soft bump of old wood on wood as another catboat nudges alongside. Shifting a heavy turtle in the bilges, Byrum cocks his head: he sees tight kinks of hair on a section of pale heavy leg between black rubber boot and rusted swim shorts, and a stray testicle, and a red T-shirt.
Mis-tuh
Desmond!
Yessuh! What say? (
grunts
) Couple turtle dere, I see.
Mon, you lookin at turtle but not turtlers. De turtlers is over dere aboard de
Adams
.
In the bow of Desmond’s boat, a near-naked black boy stands on one elegant foot, balancing himself with a long sculling pole. In the stern squats a pregnant black girl no older than fourteen. Her hands are folded in the lap of a sack frock, and her eyes are fixed on pink broken conchs and twisted beer cans in the oily bilge that washes her short ankles.
Desmond belches, gazing up at the
Eden
’s deck.
Where you headed, Byrum?
Southern cays, I venture. De season very late. If de turtle gone, well, we work offshore—Misteriosa. Know dat place?
Desmond yawns, gazing up at the
Eden
’s deck.
Far Tortuga? Copm Andrew marked it careful on my chart. Long way out dere, mon. Bad reefs.
Dat so? Well, we desperate.
Plenty egg birds dere, dey say.
Birds, mon! And trees! Ain’t one dese old mongrove banks, y’know! (
whispers
) He got de idea dat some green turtle goes out dere to nest.
Dey plenty birds dere anyways, you know dat much.
Talkin about birds? Oh, mon! De sky is littered!
Desmond grins so suddenly that Byrum flinches.
Been out dere, Byrum?
No, mon! But I knows about it good!
Using the oars as paddles, Speedy and Byrum stand upright in bow and stern, one foot on the gunwales, the other balanced on the still, bamboo-colored bellies of the turtles. Slowly they start out toward the turtle crawls.
Raib comes to the rail, sees Desmond, steps back, is seen, stops. His face closes as Desmond grins at him; he squints toward the low sun.
What say dere, Copm Raib?
Not much. Not sayin much.
Keepin quiet, huh? Ain’t like you, Copm Raib.
So you say, den. (
pause
) Got a Wika dere, I see.
No, mon. Dat Jamaica pussy, mon—cook on my boat now.
Desmond puffs his belly out and scratches it.
Yah, mon. Took her aboard to give her a rest (
winks
) from dem Jamaicans I got workin for me now—dey grindin her to death.
Nice bunch of fellas. Dat one dat got knifed dere at Bobel—did dat one die? I s’pose dem was more of your pan-heads dat we seen south of de cay.
Dem Niyamen? Dey very grudgeful cause you would not speak dem! (
grins
) Oh, dey
lookin
for you, mon!
Where you got dem now? Dead Man Mahagans?
Desmond Eden ignores the question. He contemplates Raib Avers.
Never asked me to de burial?
Never heard me holler, Come ashore—?
No, mon. Too late den.
Were not for you, dere would not have been a burial!
Desmond tucks his testicle into his shorts.
