Far Tortuga (18 page)
Authors: Peter Matthiessen
Night wind
the moon comes
the moon goes
night clouds
Underway. The
Eden
, bound offshore, buffets the wind.
4
A.M
. Wodie relieves Byrum.
The rusting schooner bangs and lurches: white crests pour down the faces of black waves, in a loud wash. Crouched, leaning, braced, the men gulp at their coffee, squinting out over their cups at the toiling dark.
Byrum, pants down, is perched on the rail behind the catboat on the starboard side. Across the pile of stove wood stacked just forward
of the galley, he can see the iron hair of the master of the vessel, seated on the rail to port. Over the wind, both shout at once.
fish a few days, den crawl dem turtle Miskita Cay register at Bragman’s stinkin river stinkin country don’t believe dat if dey believe we corryin turtle search Señores, ain’t no green turtle aboard dis vessel, only dis green turtle shit. Put
dat
in your fuckin customs house and welcome!
tell you, Copm Raib you
never listened! You
follered de calm of de stream comin down along, y’know? little kind of a calm streak side de shallers big piece of mahogany went and we went and we went
dat main channel down to de deep river stick further to de south
de south?
river domn long river, hundreds of miles tide comin out strong
Adams
boat draw quite a bit less water den dat port boat of mine Christ A’mighty boat layin right on her broadside pullin her and pullin her and pullin her leakin God A’mighty fore de evenin!
you got tangled in de water lilies
At the edge of darkness, Wodie’s checkered shirt flies on the shrouds.
The men crouch down out of the wind.
We got a old wild tree, y’know, grows wild and big, with little bells dat dey call a fig. And de old folks claim dat dese trees are haunted, dat dey used to see ghosts around dese trees. So dat is what dey callin duppy trees.
Duppy trees! My, my!
Course, any place dat is uninhabited is where de duppies likes to be, and places dat is lonesome. Dat is why folks doesn’t stay alone in dere houses in de night. And duppies will foller you if you go corryin rum and johnnycake. De old people sayin dat dey been bothered in de bushes, and certain times dey been hearin de sweetest music and all of dat. So one day I was out in de bush nearby to where dey call de Shadow Pond, way out in de bushes by myself, where I know dere was no other person dere, cause nobody s’posed to go dere but myself. And I hearin sweet music dat couldn’t be nothin else but ghosts.
Raib shouts at Wodie from the wheelhouse.
DAT IS NONSENSE DAT YOU TELLIN, WODIE!
Wodie grins shyly at the other men, who signal him to keep talking. He lowers his voice.
Now dis was told me by my own grandmother’s brother by de name of Wilson. Wilson was courtin de woman dat became his wife, and was goin home about one o’clock de night. And down de road, here come a strange black dog, and
de dog was not standin on de ground but kind of leapin from one side to the other. Now dis were a night black as de grave, but dis dog had a kind of glow, like you see in bad fish dere, or punky wood, so he knew right away it was a ghost. So instead of takin de road, he took de seashore. And de dog follered. So he went into de sea and started to go down until he come abreast of where he wanted to go ashore, which was a goodly distance because he lived in de
west
end of East End and he was comin from de
east
end of East End. But when he come ashore, here comes de dog again, and dere is something ’longside de dog, look like a woman. And he took to de sea and swam back to where his girl friend lived and in de mornin time dere came de news dat my grandmother had died.
I very glad to hear about dem old-time things, y’know. Dey dyin away on de west end.
Oh yes, Mist’ Will! I was just a boy dat loved to keep old people company! I loved to know something about de old people and de old ways. I loved—
TELL ABOUT DEM OBEAH WORKERS, WODIE! TELL ABOUT DE MURDER OF DAT CHILD!
First light.
A black hump on the black horizon.
Athens! ATHENS! Buddy, run back dere and tell de helm to head her off de wind another point. If he were not asleep, he could had seen dat landfall for hisself!
One day dat Athens gone wake up in de grave.
Bobel Cay.
Look dere! A vessel!
Against the cay a white shape rises. Raib turns from the rail as Buddy reappears.
Athens! ATHENS! (
to Buddy
) Run back and tell de helm we changin course! Sout’-sou’east!
Copm Raib? Copm Raib? Must be Desmond’s vessel! Your own doddy aboard of dere—don’t want to speak him?
Raib turns a mean stare on Vemon, who steps backward and salutes. The crewmen laugh. Raib’s chin juts and he starts to speak, then stops. He gazes at his men.
You want to lose another day? All right, den. BUDDY!
In the gray light, a yacht, decrepit. Her varnished cabin sides are patchy and her white hull is stained with rust; her afterdeck, under a torn flapping canopy, is littered with cartons and refuse. A few turtles, unprotected from the sun, are scattered on the main deck, forward. Old auto tire fenders from her last port hang along her sides, and rust, barnacles and algae crust her water line. On her bows, large eyes are crudely painted, and on her stern is the name
DAVY JONES
Yawning and scratching, her men drift to the rail. One pisses into the gray water.
Call
dat
a turtle boat, in dese domned days!
The
Eden
, coming alongside, settles heavily against her fenders; her crewmen take the
Eden
’s lines. The two crews nod in greeting but do not call out; all watch the
Eden
’s captain.
Raib stands, feet spread, at his own rail, which lies below that of the
Davy Jones
.
What dem eyes for? Desmond need dat to find turtle?
What say dere, Copm Raib? Come up, mon! Come aboard de yacht!
Call dat a yacht, huh? Copm Andrew dere?
Yah, mon! Come up!
A silence as the
Eden
’s engines are shut down. Wind, and a wash of sea along the hull. From Bobel comes bird shriek and the thud of surf on the shore to windward; the daybreak sky takes on a silver shine. On the north point of the cay, a fire darts and shudders in the wind. There figures gather in one mass and break apart again.
Raib remains standing at the rail, feet wide apart.
He can’t come to de rail? Copm ANDREW! (
pause
) Can’t hear me, den?
Yah, mon. He hearin you good. Settin right dere. But he ain’t talkin.
Goddom it—
Hurt his heart, jumpin out de catboat. Rough weather, y’know, and de rails is high. Must be he shamed of hurtin hisself, cause he won’t talk no more.
Raib swings onto the deck of the
Davy Jones
.
Andrew Avers, dressed in clean, sun-worn khakis and high black shoes and a round-topped thatch hat, is seated in a rough chair knocked together out of boards which stick up behind his head. In his lap is a sun-whitened conch shell, cupped ceremonially in both spotted hands.
Under the clear gaze of his father, Raib starts to speak, then stops, and makes no move toward him.
Catboat? Goddom it, to bring a man dat is eighty years of age—DESMOND!
Ain’t aboard, Copm Raib. Desmond spend de night dere on de cay with dem Jamaicans. (
winks
) Dey got rum and pussy over dere, but Desmond say he go dere to talk
business
.
Raib points at Will.
Throw dat boat overboard! I goin ashore!
Bobel.
Speedy and Buddy stand beside the boat.
In a ruined copse on the high ground of the cay, a litter of tin and broken glass gives off a weak reflection of the distant fire. Here and there on the spears and stumps a sea bird poises, wings held high over its back; the shrieking birds lift away on the dawn wind which blows through the broken sea wood unimpeded. Striking the first sun rays, overhead, the sharp wings turn from gray to white: the terns beat forward, stroking hard against the wind to remain above the head of the intruder.
The dry smell of bird guano floats lightly on a pall of human excrement. Placing his bare feet carefully, Raib spits out his breath in
bursts. The smooth track of a hawksbill turtle leads up above the tide line, where the turtle has pushed aside torn purslane and trash to dig her nest.
The sand spit on the north end of the cay: a dead fire, and flimsy wind breaks built from the killed trees. Here dark forms lie in a ragged pile.
On the open beach, two figures copulate and a third sits hunched up like a fetus. His ragged shorts are tangled at his knees, and his hands are bloody; he is cradling his stomach. He croons slowly in bewilderment. Noticing Raib, he blinks, then scowls, but the scowl gives way to a yip of pain. In an effort to spit toward the copulating man he fails; the weak spit bubbles.