Far Tortuga (34 page)
Authors: Peter Matthiessen
No, mon. Dat old mon were my doddy too, y’know.
I never swallered dat one, Desmond.
You de only one in Caymans, den—you gone to choke on it.
Copm Andrew’s bush child! Desmond Eden!
No, mon. Outside child. I were acknowledged when he give me de
Clarinda
.
To see de ugly way you kept her! Call yourself Coptin—!
Look better dat way den burned down for de insurance, ain’t dat so?
Is dat de tale you give to Copm Andrew? Dat why he would not talk?
How you like your new engines, Copm Raib? (
farts
) Gone ask your baby brother to come up?
Dat what you here for? (
contemptuously
) Come up, den.
No thank you kindly, brother—I too busy.
Athens comes forward, carrying a paper parcel; he hops down into Desmond’s boat.
Goddom it, Athens, I never said you could go visitin dis mornin—!
Ain’t goin visitin. I goin home. I sick, mon. I sick inside of my own self and I sick of de shit aboard of here.
You wantin to lose your share of dis voyage? Cause you jumpin ship! I never signed you off!
The boat moves away from the
Eden
’s hull.
Well, dat ain’t much, on
dis
voyage, Copm Raib. But if you smart, you settle up with me when you come home.
Raib lifts his stubbled chin toward Athens’ parcel.
If dey anything missin aboard of here, we know who got it, dat right, Athens?
You talk like dat, why, I might get to talkin too.
Rain clouds, rain-colored water. The
Eden
’s catboat, near awash, is poled slowly by Byrum and Speedy. Drifting downwind from the crawls come the gasps of the penned turtles and the sad plaint of a gull.
Speedy talks over his shoulder; his muscles jump beneath a bright white T-shirt.
Now de Coptin say he took a floggin dere in de Bay Islands. He say dem people cheat him, so dat is why he left dat place still owin dem money on de vessel. But dem people was always good to me, very fine. Dey had dat drydock down dere in French Harbour a long time, and dis is de first thing of dis kind dat ever I heard against dem. Old Doddy dere, he say dey kep’m dere to make more money, but maybe dey work de best when dey work slow. Maybe dass de way things go de best down in Honduras.
A soft-drink can bobs by in the gray dawn water; on the bottom lies a thick orange starfish. In pale patches between beds of turtle grass, bruise-colored medusae loom, seeming to breathe.
A scuttling fish.
Another thing: he put de blame on Brownie for de vibration in dat port engine, and de oil seals leakin, but it were nobody else den him dat struck dat shaft with a sledge hammer to
straighten it, in de heat of de day, when he were angry—he were de one did
dat
.
Oh, I believe dat! He a mule, just like his doddy! You can’t change him!
The mangrove walls of Miskito Cay close off the eastern sky.
Something about dat mon-grove, Speedy. Something lonely.
Lonely kind of day, mon.
I wish I could speak good. De things I
feelin
…
The turtle crawls are water pens constructed of long mangrove saplings stuck into the marly bottom in five feet of water and lashed with thatch rope, in pens twenty feet square. The saplings rise high above the surface as a protection against storm seas, and each crawl has a gate on one side that can be taken down to water level when turtles are put in or removed.
The gaunt poles of the crawls look bent in the gray wind, and the figures in the boats stand motionless against the sky. There is a catboat from the
Adams
and two Indian
cayucas
, which carry thalassia grass used as fodder for the turtles.
The turtlers wear plaited palm hats, the crawl tenders the sombreros of the coast. Most of the Wika men have Indian features in black skin.
Take he away!
The myriad bay-colored shells of the turtles in the crawl are scarred and dull, and the creatures have lost their gliding ocean flight: the crowded pen has made their movements jerky. Cornered, they rush against the stakes.
See dem turtle, Speedy? Some dem leany from bein so long into dat crawl—dey gettin watered. Meat get all kind of slimy. In Cayman we don’t like dem dat way, we likes dem fat, but watered turtle sells fine at Key West.
A big Wika dives beneath the surface of the pen, where the turtles mill. Grasping a turtle by the carapace, behind the head, he slips a noose around the base of a fore flipper, singing out to the men at the crawl gate.
Take he away!
The
Adams
boat crew deals with the big turtle: the whole pen is a turmoil of white water. The Wika seizes a second turtle while waiting for a noose to be thrown back to him; he leans into a corner, holding it upright, from behind. In pompous strength, he watches, and his dripping head is grim. The upright turtle blinks.
… your two hands, mon! Grob her!
Switch her ass dis way!
Dis
way!
Easy do it—see my foot?
Up
she goes!
The noose is slung back to the Wika.
Take he away!
When the
Adams
boat is loaded and moves off, Byrum secures his catboat. One by one, the
Eden
’s turtles are hauled onto the gate, and Speedy cuts the flipper thongs with quick hooks of his knife as the turtle is shoved forward into the pen. Still upside down, each turtle sinks thrashing toward the bottom but quickly rights itself and rushes for the sea, striking so hard against the stakes on the far side that the crawl sways.
See dat? Won’t be pretty long. Couple weeks into de crawl, all dat fine sea color be gone.
Dey pretty, mon. Green turtle pretty. I like de way dey swims among de reef.
Look out you don’t cut dere throat, de way you swing dat knife—won’t swim so pretty
den
.
Speedy slashes the last thong and shoves the turtle into the pen.
No, mon. I can cut, mon. From school days. If he can’t do nothin else, dis boy can
cut
!
Byrum socks him on the biceps.
You a hard nigger, mon! I very glad dat we in friendship!
Oh, I a hard one, dass de truth!
Hard
nigger, mon!
Midmorning. The
Eden
moves offshore past the
Adams
, which is laying over one more day because of wind. Byrum bellows across the water to his former shipmates, who lift their hands or chins by way of parting.
Speedy looks for Athens on the
Adams
deck.
Funny thing he don’t come out, wave us goodbye. (
sighs
) Havin a shipmate leave de vessel, never sayin goodbye—makes me feel funny.
Prob’ly he too sick of dis domn boat to look at it. You pick de wrong vessel, Speedy! You seein turtles but not turtlers!
Maybe de luck change tomorrow. I not worried, mon.
No, mon. Dis a very poor trip. Boat leaks bad; dis vessel need three thousand dollars just to make her seaworthy. No life jackets, no fire extinguisher, no runnin lights, and dat goddom radio-telephone dat don’t send: I tellin you, it like de back-time days, bein aboard of here. Ain’t like a freighter where you holler Mayday over de radio. Out on dese reefs you holler Mayday till you blue in de face, ain’t nobody to hear.
Silent
, mon. Just like dem mongrove.
Well, de
Adams
look very nice.
Oh, she a
pretty
vessel! She got dat wind chute you seen dere dat suck wind down into de turtle hold; green turtle need dat, cause dey stacked maybe six-deep on dem racks. Pretty near every line on her you got nylon; you don’t see all of dis old thatch rope. (
sighs
) Maybe if dis vessel had good blocks, wouldn’t be so bad, but ain’t a halyard here, or a sheet here, dat is rove properly. Since she got dose masts cut short, de
Eden
is ass over backward. All de riggin slack—you risk your neck just to climb up to de crosstrees. (
sighs
) Too bad you never work aboard of de
Adams
.
Old Doddy treat me pretty good. I work good so he treat me good. Nobody complainin about Speedy. I works on a drydock. Plenty boats. Work my property. Fifty-five acres, mon. Dey hate like hell for me to go off on dis vessel; dey not wantin me to go.
He always yellin about justice. But dey ain’t only three of us does all de work aboard of dis vessel, and dey nine men gettin shares. Ain’t no justice
dere
!
Speedy leans back, hands behind his head.
Dey gone to laugh like hell, dey be so hoppy when I gets back to dat sweet land of Roatán.
My intended dere, Miss Gwen, she de child of Copm Ossie. And Ossie, he de father-in-law of Acey Christian. Me and dem two fellas, we gone to get our own turtle boat, we gone to
build
her. Yah, mon. Dey some bush over dere in Ally Land dat got de last Cayman mahogany. We get in dere with donkeys, mon, and haul it out—dass de plan dat we got now.
Ain’t you de one was tellin me dat dis fishery near finished?
Dass right. But we got it in de blood.
Okay. Dass good. Dass very very fine.
The
Eden
rolls down past the Nasa Cays and the Alice-Agnes Rocks, bearing west-southwest, on a following wind, for Nicaragua.
South of the Rocks, a silhouette rises and falls in the slow ocean as the green walls move one by one to leeward.
See dat notch dere in de cobberknife? See it? Same black tiger!
Don’t know dat Copm Andrew gone.
I hope dass it. I hope so.
Listen to Mist’ Byrum Watler! Jumpin at shadders!
Vemon relieves Byrum.
Copm Raib? Copm Raib? Dat time I was down to Bragman’s, dem seas was so big dat we had to let go de lines onto de pier. Seas like dat at Bragman’s every day, so de Sponnish say. So I was wonderin, Copm Raib, are we gone to tie up at the pier or are we gone to anchor off?
You had to let go de lines, you say? And dat was a ship of four, five hundred ton? So you would think den … god
dom
! (
incredulous
) So why in de hell would you ask if we gone to go in dis weather, in dis wind, in dis much smaller vessel, to tie up to dat dock?
Why
, I askin you!
Dat why I
askin
, Copm Raib—
Goddom it, Vemon, you a stupid mon, I tell you dat much! And dat partner of yours, dat Athens—know what he done? Stole Copm Andrew’s knife! Stole a dead mon’s knife!
