Islands in the Stream (5 page)

“I’ll give the Deity a fast one high and inside if he crowds the plate,” Roger said.

“Roger,” said Johnny reproachfully. “It’s after dark. Didn’t you see twilight fall and dusk set in and darkness come? And you a writer. Never a good idea to speak slightingly of the Deity after dark. He’s liable to be right behind you with his bat poised.”

“I’ll bet he’d crowd the plate, too,” Roger said. “I’ve seen him crowding it lately.”

“Yes sir,” Johnny said. “And he’d step into your fast one and knock your brains out. I’ve seen him hit.”

“Yes, I guess you have,” Roger agreed. “So has Tom and so have I. But I’d still try and get my fast ball by him.”

“Let’s cut out the theological discussion,” Johnny said. “And get something to eat.”

“That decrepit old man you keep to tool this thing around the ocean still know how to cook?” Thomas Hudson asked.

“Chowder,” Johnny said. “And a yellow rice tonight with plover. Golden plover.”

“You sound like a damned Interior decorator,” Tom said. “There’s no gold on them this time of year, anyway. Where’d you shoot the plover?”

“On South Island when we went in to anchor and swim. I whistled the flock back twice and kept knocking them down. There’s two apiece.”

It was a fine night and after they had eaten dinner they sat out in the stern with coffee and cigars, and a couple of other people, both worthless sporting characters, came over from one of the other boats with a guitar and a banjo and the Negroes gathered on the dock and there was some sporadic singing. In the dark, up on the dock, the boys would lead off with a song and then Fred Wilson, who had the guitar, would sing and Frank Hart would fake along on the banjo. Thomas Hudson could not sing, so he sat back in the dark and listened.

There was quite a lot of celebration going on at Bobby’s place and you could see the lights from the open door over the water. The tide was still ebbing strong, and out where the light shone fish were jumping. They were gray snappers mostly, Tom thought, feeding on the bait fish that fell out with the tide. A few Negro boys were fishing with hand lines and you could hear them talking and cursing softly when they lost a fish, and hear the snappers flopping on the dock when they landed one. There were big snappers out there and the boys were baiting them up with chunks of marlin meat from a fish one of the boats had brought in early that afternoon and that had already been hung up, photographed, weighed, and butchered.

There was quite a crowd on the dock now with the singing and Rupert
Pinder
, a very big Negro who was said to have once carried a piano on his back, unaided, from the Government dock all the way up the King’s Highway to the old club that the hurricane blew away, and who fancied himself as a fighting man, called down from the dock, “Captain John, boys say they getting thirsty.”

“Buy something inexpensive and healthful, Rupert.”

“Yes sir, Captain John. Rum.”

“That’s what I had in mind,” John said. “Why not try for a demijohn? Better value, I think.”

“Many thanks, Captain John,” Rupert said. Rupert moved off through the crowd which thinned rapidly and fell in behind him. Thomas Hudson could see them all heading toward Roy’s place.

Just then, from one of the boats tied up at Brown’s dock, a rocket rose with a whoosh high into the sky and burst with a pop to light up the channel. Another went whooshing up at an angle and burst, this time, just over the near end of their dock.

“Damn,” said Fred Wilson. “We should have sent over to Miami for some.”

The night was lighted now with rockets whishing and popping and, in the light, Rupert and his followers were coming back out onto the dock, Rupert carrying a big wicker demijohn on his shoulder.

Someone fired a rocket from one of the boats and it burst just over the dock, lighting up the crowd, the dark faces, necks, and hands, and Rupert’s flat face, wide shoulders, and thick neck with the wicker-covered jug resting tenderly and proudly alongside his head.

“Cups,” he said to his followers, speaking over his shoulder. “Enameled cups.”

“Got tin cups, Rupert,” one boy said.

“Enameled cups,” Rupert said. “Get them. Buy them from Roy. Here’s money.”

“Get the Verey pistol of ours, Frank,” Fred Wilson said. “We might as well shoot up those flares and get some fresh ones.”

While Rupert waited grandly for the cups someone brought a saucepan and Rupert poured into it and it was passed around.

“For the little people,” Rupert said. “Drink up, unimportant people.”

Singing was proceeding steadily and with little organization. Along with the rockets some of the boats were firing off rifles and pistols and from Brown’s dock a Tommy gun was skipping tracers out over the channel. It fired a burst of threes and fours, then loosed off a full clip, rattling the red tracers out in a lovely looping arc over the harbor.

The cups came at the same time as Frank Hart dropped down into the stern carrying a case with a Verey pistol and an assortment of flares and one of Rupert’s assistants started pouring and handing cups around.

“God bless the Queen,” Frank Hart said and loaded and fired a flare past the end of the dock directly at the open door of Mr. Bobby’s place. The flare hit the concrete wall beside the door, burst, and burned brightly on the coral road, lighting everything with a white light.

“Take it easy,” Thomas Hudson said. “Those things can burn people.”

“The hell with take it easy,” Frank said. “Let me see if I can bag the Commissioner’s house.”

“You’ll burn it,” Roger told him.

“If I burn it I’ll pay for it,” Frank said.

The flare arced up toward the big white-porched house but it was short and burned brightly just this side of the Commissioner’s front porch.

“Good old Commissioner,” Frank reloaded. “That will show the bastard whether we’re patriotic or not.”

“Take it easy, Frank,” Tom urged him. “We don’t have to play rough.”

“Tonight’s my night,” Frank said. “The Queen’s night and mine. Get out of my way, Tom, while I nail Brown’s dock.”

“He’s got gas on it,” Roger said.

“Not for long,” Frank told him.

It was impossible to tell whether he was trying to miss each shot to devil Roger and Thomas Hudson or whether he was really being bad. Neither Roger nor Thomas Hudson were sure either but they knew no one should be able to shoot a signal pistol with that much accuracy. And there was gas on the dock.

Frank stood up, took careful aim with his left arm down at his side like a duelist, and fired. The flare hit the dock at the far end from where the gas drums were piled and ricocheted off into the channel.

“Hey,” someone yelled from the boats that were tied up at Brown’s. “What the hell?”

“Almost a perfect shot,” Frank said. “Now I’m going to try for the Commissioner again.”

“You better damn well cut it out,” Thomas Hudson told him.

“Rupert,” Frank called up, ignoring Thomas Hudson. “Let me have some of that, will you?”

“Yes sir, Captain Frank,” Rupert said. “You got a cup?”

“Get me a cup,” Frank said to Fred, who was standing watching.

“Yes
sir
, Mr. Frank.”

Fred jumped and came back with the cup. His face was shining with excitement and pleasure.

“You figure to burn down the Commissioner, Mr. Frank?”

“Only if he catches fire,” Frank said.

He handed the cup up to Rupert who three quarters filled it and reached it down.

“The Queen, God bless her,” Frank drained the cup.

It was a terrific slug of rum to take like that.

“God bless her. God bless her, Captain Frank,” Rupert said solemnly, and the others echoed, “God bless her. God bless her indeed.”

“Now for the Commissioner,” Frank said. He fired the signal pistol straight up in the air, a little into the wind. He had loaded with a parachute flare and the wind drifted the bright white light down over the cruiser astern.

“Sure missed Commissioner that time,” Rupert said. “What’s wrong, Captain Frank?”

“I wanted to illuminate this beautiful scene,” Frank said. “No hurry about the Commissioner.”

“Commissioner’d burn good, Captain Frank,” Rupert advised. “I don’t want to influence you in it but it hasn’t rained on island for two months and Commissioner’s dry as tinder.”

“Where’s Constable?” Frank asked.

“Constable’s keeping out of the way of things,” Rupert said. “Don’t you worry about Constable. Nobody on this dock would see shot if shot was fired.”

“Everybody on this dock lay flat down on their faces and see nothing,” a voice came from back in the crowd. “Nothing has been heard. Nothing win be seen.”

“I give the command,” Rupert urged. “Every face is averted.” Then, encouragingly, “She’s just as dry as tinder that old place.”

“Let me see how you’d do it,” Frank said.

He loaded with another parachute flare and fired up and into the wind. In the falling garish light everyone on the dock was lying face down or was on hands and knees with eyes covered.

“God bless you, Captain Frank,” came Rupert’s deep solemn voice out of the dark when the flare died. “May He in His infinite mercy give you courage to burn Commissioner.”

“Where’s his wife and children?” Frank asked.

“We get them out. Don’t you worry,” Rupert said. “No harm of any kind come to anyone innocent.”

“Should we burn him?” Frank turned to the others in the cockpit.

“Oh, cut it out,” Thomas Hudson said. “For Christ’s sake.”

“I’m leaving in the morning,” Frank said. “As a matter of fact I’m cleared.”

“Let’s burn him,” Fred Wilson said. “Natives seem to favor it.”

“Burn him, Captain Frank,” Rupert urged. “What do you say?” he asked the others.

“Burn him. Burn him. God give you strength to burn him,” said the boys on the dock.

“Nobody want him unburned?” Frank asked them.

“Burn him, Captain Frank. Nobody see it. Nothing ever been heard. Not a word’s been said. Burn him.”

“Need a few practice shots,” Frank said.

“Get off this damned boat if you’re going to burn him,” Johnny said.

Frank looked at him and shook his head a little so that neither Roger nor the boys on the dock saw it.

“He’s ashes now,” he said. “Let me have just one more, Rupert, to stiffen my will.”

He handed up the cup.

“Captain Frank,” Rupert leaned down to speak to him. “This will be the deed of your life.”

Up on the dock the boys had started a new song.

“Captain Frank in the harbor

Tonight’s the night we got fun.”

Then a pause, and pitched higher ...

“Captain Frank in the harbor

Tonight’s the night we got fun.”

The second line was sung like a drum bonging. Then they went on:

“Commissioner called Rupert a duty black hound

Captain Frank fired his flare pistol and burnt him to the ground.”

Then they went back to the other old African rhythm four of the men in the launch had heard sung by the Negroes that pulled the ropes on the ferries that crossed the rivers along the coast road between Mombasa, Malindi, and Lamu where, as they pulled in unison, the Negroes sang improvised work songs that described and made fun of the white people they were carrying on the ferry.

“Captain Frank in the harbor

Tonight’s the night we got fun.

Captain Frank in the harbor”

Defiant, insultingly, despairingly defiant the minor notes rose. Then the drum’s bonging response.

“Tonight’s the night we got fun!”

“You see, Captain Frank?” Rupert urged, leaning down into the cockpit. “You got the song already before you even commit the deed.”

“I’m getting pretty committed,” Frank said to Thomas Hudson. Then, “One more practice shot,” he told Rupert.

“Practice makes perfect,” Rupert said happily.

“Captain Frank’s practicing now for the death,” someone said on the dock.

“Captain Frank’s wilder than a wild hog,” came another voice.

“Captain Frank’s a
man
.”

“Rupert,” Frank said. “Another cup of that, please. Not to encourage me. Just to help my aim.”

“God guide you, Captain Frank,” Rupert reached down the cup. “Sing the Captain Frank song, boys.”

Frank drained the cup.

“The last practice shot,” he said and firing just over the cabin cruiser lying astern he bounced the flare off Brown’s gas drums and into the water.

“You son of a bitch,” Thomas Hudson said to him very quietly.

“Shut up, christer,” Frank said to Thomas Hudson. “That was my masterpiece.”

Just then, in the cockpit of the other cruiser, a man came out onto the stern wearing pajama trousers with no top and shouted, “Listen, you swine! Stop it, will you? There’s a lady trying to sleep down below.”

“A lady?” Wilson asked.

“Yes, goddam it, a lady,” the man said. “My wife. And you dirty bastards firing those flares to keep her awake and keep anybody from getting any sleep.”

“Why don’t you give her sleeping pills?” Frank said. “Rupert, send a boy for some sleeping pills.”

“Do you know what you do, colonel?” Wilson said. “Why don’t you just comport yourself as a good husband should? That’ll put her to sleep. She’s probably repressed. Maybe she’s thwarted. That’s what the analyst always tells my wife.”

They were very rough boys and Frank was way in the wrong but the man who had been pitching the drunk all day had gotten off to an exceedingly bad start with the approach he had taken. Neither John nor Roger nor Thomas Hudson had said a word. The other two, from the moment the man had come out onto the stern and yelled, “Swine,” had worked together like a really fast shortstop and second baseman.

“You filthy swine,” the man said. He did not seem to have much of a vocabulary and he looked between thirty-five and forty. It was hard to tell his age closely, even though he had switched on his cockpit lights. He looked much better than Thomas Hudson had expected him to look after hearing the stories all day and Thomas Hudson thought he must have gotten some sleep. Thomas Hudson remembered, then, that he had been sleeping at Bobby’s.

“I’d try Nembutal,” Frank told him very confidentially. “Unless she’s allergic to it.”