Far Tortuga (37 page)
Authors: Peter Matthiessen
Daybreak.
The swift fire of the rising sun strikes the dirty beach under the pier head, where thin hogs root at peels and rotten fruit. Above, whores nag at Byrum, who sits on the pier head beside a sprawling sack of oranges. He gnaws angrily at a whole orange, spitting skin and seeds into the sea.
Near the waterfront bar, on a hard barren ground, Vemon is swaying. He has lost his cap, and the trade winds shift the lank hair on his skull.
Raib faces Vemon at a little distance.
You comin, Vemon?
Just give de word, I grob him.
Vemon?
Can’t leave him with de Sponnish, mon. He
die
here.
Shut your mouth! Why you didn’t think of dat last evenin? Why dey fire you off de
Adams
for? Why? I try to be a gentleman dere and not ask a mon what is his own business, but by Jesus, now I wants to
know
!
Insubordernation. Know what dat is?
Boy, you learned me it good if I hadn’t knowed it! Domn drunken fool—you broke de stem dere on de catboat!
Byrum spits orange seeds at the Captain’s feet.
You best fire me, den, Raib.
You forgettin yourself, mon! (
sucks his teeth
) You de worst of all dese fellas, Byrum, cause you know better den what you doin. You de
worst
one.
Dat so? Now let’s grob him and let’s go.
Vemon retreats a little.
Forty year, Copm Raib! We been in friendship forty year, and never a wry word!
Byrum lurches to his feet.
Listen to
dat
bullshit! De way you got dis fool and Will kissin your ass, I tell you, it turn my stomach. And de boy. And Speedy.
Four
of dem …
Byrum’s voice dies as Raib turns.
Get de hell back down dat dock and get into dat boat.
Shouldering his big sack of fruit, Byrum attempts a salute, but the Captain has already turned back again to Vemon.
Vemon salutes.
Reportin for duty, Copm Raib!
Let’s go den, darlin, cause we sailin.
You never treats me with respect! A mon gots to have
respect
! Dass why I stayin, Copm Raib!
You a turtler or ain’t you? I ain’t goin to shanghai you.
I got
papers
, Copm Raib! You show me no respect for dat—dass why I stayin!
Raib contemplates him for so long that Vemon nervously salutes again. Then he extends his hand, which Vemon stares at.
Stay den, mon. You gettin de respect you wants: I respectin your decision. And I wish you all de luck of it.
Copm Raib? Copm Raib?
Walking away, lugging his documents, Raib limps a little in his shoes. On the long pier, he looks small. Ahead of him, Byrum lurches around to yell at Vemon; because he is drunk, the heavy fruit sack, swinging, makes him stagger.
Vemon! Come
on
, mon! De goddom
guardias
—
Vemon follows at a distance, placing his feet carefully; he has lost his shoes, and his feet are pale and soft under the dirt line at his ankles. The pale feet limp on the dead bottle caps. Uneasy, he glances behind him, then hobbles out onto the pier.
Byrum turns back a final time, as Raib passes him and goes down into the boat. Vemon has stopped, raising his hand to shield his eyes against the Caribbean sunrise at the pier end.
Vemon!
VEMON!
The
Eden
bound outward, west-northwest, into the wind.
At the pier end stands a figure in a flying shirt.
We ain’t goin back for him, den?
NO, MON!
Vemon Dilbert Evers! Mon! Dem papers he always talkin about ain’t de papers he need here. Dem
guardias
gone to pick’m up and he rot in jail.
Lucky if dey don’t shoot’m for a spy.
Lucky if dey
do
—you seen dem Sponnish jail? Better off dead.
DAT MUTTERIN DONT DO NO GOOD. YOU HADN’T TOOK HIM ASHORE, HE BE HERE NOW!
Copm Raib, I could had grobbed him dere! He wanted to come with us!
Don’t you tell me about Vemon! I corried dat fella all my life, and corryin never done him a bit of good; he just waitin on dat. So dis time I tellin him he got to take de responsibility:
either he back up dat big mouth he got or back up his common knowledge of dis life. And de fool back up his mouth.
He never b’lieve you leave him dere!
Raib gazes somberly toward shore.
He b’lieve it now. Old Vemon b’lieve it now. (
grunts
) He were my neighbor in dis life—dey called him Vemon. God done a bad job when he give me something like dat man to be my neighbor.
The Witties and London Reef.
Still the wind blows, and turtle are few. In the next fortnight, the
Eden
takes twenty-three green turtle and four hawksbill. Slowly she beats eastward.
We come too late. Dey gone south to de Bogue.
Dis a bad trip, mon. A bad trip. Dis wind gettin me.
I not worry, mon. Never worry, dat is me. But I givin up de sea, work on de land. De sea always treat me pretty good, but now I gone to give her up, work on de land. Fifty-five acres, mon, all free and clear. And I don’t have to go lookin for my job. Oh, dey laugh like hell dey be so hoppy when I go back dere!
Speedy-mon? Try dese oranges? Something
good
!
Misteriosa! Dat way out dere, ain’t it? Queena way? (
sighs
) Oh, Queena got plenty fish, Copm Allie say, but dey very few turtle, and dey not very easy caught. Too much tides and currents around dere. It just layin out in de open sea. Very bad reef. It a great place for cotchin up wrecks.
Dass why de Sponnish calls it Quita Sueño—get no sleep dere.
If dis wind don’t moderate, den we ain’t gone to do much anywhere, cause de season has come up with us—we gettin into de May time. So our last chance is Misteriosa Reefs. Cause I got de theory dat green turtles makes dere nests at Far Tortuga, and dat would mean dat quite a few could be driftin out dat way already. Oh, yes! Dey good turtle spots out on dem reefs, boys, but you got to know’m—can’t set just any old white hole or pan shoal or channel. You got to
know
.
If dey egg birds dere, dey Jamaicans dere. Domn pan-heads all over de place.
No, mon. It hard to find and it hard to fish. It too far south for dem, and too far off de coast. Far off de shippin lanes, even when dis were de Sponnish Main—dass why dey called it Far Tortuga. So when dem old-time turtlers come across it once again, back dere in de last century, why, dey just kept dat secret for dereselves. (
sighs
) Dat island is a very nice place. A
very
nice place. And dere good shelter in de lee, cause it high enough so it got trees—grape trees and jennifer trees, and den logwood and mongrove: got a little water dere if you know how to dig for it. Plenty birds. I thinkin one day I might build a little shack out dere on Far Tortuga. Dass my dream.
Got no dream, mon. I got fifty-five acres, mon, and cows. I go along every day, do what I got to do, and den I lays down to my rest.
Feel bad about Vemon. He ain’t much, but he our shipmate.
Never do
dat
in de back time! Maroon a shipmate on de Sponnish coast! Might’s well leave him off in hell!
Mon come and go, I guess. Like Brown dere. Modern time, mon.
A blue catboat, rag sail luffing.
Dey only de one fella—I can see him!
Tackin to de eastward! Where in de hell he think he bound?
Maybe he sunstruck. Copm Raib? We speak him, den?
He can see us and he ain’t wavin. (
winces
) Ain’t nothin de motter with
dat
fella, he just crazy.
S’posin he too sick to wave.
Well, speak him, den! Dass all we need aboard of here! Another crazy mon!
The Captain points at Wodie, who stands with both hands on the rail, staring at the small boat as the
Eden
comes astern of her. At the tiller is a black man, near-naked. When the
Eden
rolls up alongside, the stranger looks away to the east horizon.