Authors: Peter Matthiessen
Far Tortuga (6 page)
I had good jobs and plenty! Steamshippin! Had my papers, and I been to other parts! Stead of signin on with you, I’d of done better to go up dere to United States, see if dey couldn’t use a good mon up
dat
way—
You
had
good jobs, dat is right, in de days dat you could still hondle yourself and call yourself a deckhand! But de only jobs you gone get now is with domn fools like me dat take you along just to give you a rest from your own self!
I ’preciate dat, Copm Raib! I—
You ’preciate dat enough to do your work? Cause no mon here gone corry you, by Jesus!
A silence. Raib looks around him.
Buddy? You standin de first watch tonight? Well, speak up, boy, you feelin seasick? Cause on watch you gots de men’s life in your hands, dey ain’t no lyin down. Dis here a empty part of de bleak ocean, but dey could be a trader goin across from de Windwards over to Belize, and dis vessel ain’t got runnin lights and all like dat to let’m know dat fools is comin at’m out de dark, you hear me now? You hear me?
No runnin lights, no, and no fire equipment, no life jackets, no nothin—
Hear de way he shout? He scare’m fore he learn’m.
You fellas best listen here and stop dat mutterin! I gone tell you a old-fashion story about standin watch, and den I ain’t gone to speak about dis motter any more. In de days of my youth was dis turtle coptin, a MacTaggart, I believe, dat dey call him Fightin Mac. And dis vessel had a cargo of turtle for Port Antonio. And he speakin to his crew like I speakin to you now. So he say, dis is God’s own sailin ship, so when I gives an order, I don’t want to see no mon walk or run, I want to see him
fly
dere, like a angel. (
laughs
) Like a
angel
! But dere was dis little Miskita Indian, and dis Indian fell
asleep durin de time of his watch. And dere come down a press of wind, and because dis vessel was not steered in de proper fashion, de bow was drawed under, and one of de crew was washed over de side, and drownded. Got a mouthful of sand, as de old people say.
A long pause.
A mouthful of sand.
The Captain looks from man to man.
Well, Fightin Mac, he made dis little Indian stand a forty-eight-hour watch, and all of dis time he beat’m with a knout of rope. So when dey come ashore dere, in Jamaica, dis little Indian, he went to de insane asylum—
dass
de kind of shape dat poor fella was in after his voyage with Fightin Mac … Now dat is a old-fashion story, and I hopes dat you fellas reap some sense from it. Cause I only sayin what is fair when I say you ain’t much of a crew. I got to
make
a crew out of dis lot, and I mean to do it.
See, Buddy? Dat de north star. Goes very bright, and den she fades again, every four days. Dat is one thing you can count on. Everything else in dis goddom world changin so fast dat a mon cannot keep up no more, but de north star is always dere, boy, de cold eye of it, watchin de seasons come and go.
Abruptly, Raib stands and turns his back upon his son and, hands in pockets, swaying with the ship, gazes northward up the silver wake.
It were watchin on de night dat you were borned, and it be watchin when dat night comes dat you die.
Polaris
wind
black clouds across the stars
night squalls
Speedy relieves Buddy.
Wodie relieves Speedy.
Vemon relieves Wodie.
In the sun’s imminence, the horizon to the east expands, and high in the west, toward Swan Island, a lone cloud following the night is turning pink.
During the night, a migrant swallow has come aboard. Borne back toward the south, it bills water from a vibrating puddle of fresh rain in the rim of a fuel drum.
The wind has slackened but the daybreak sky is a dead yellow that turns the sea to glimmering gray. Bruised masses shroud the sun, and an iron gleam is cast on the wet surface of the deck.
Trousers hanging, rubbing his eyes with fists, Raib appears in the doorway of the deckhouse and gazes balefully to windward. The sea, roiled suddenly by squall, turns a soft black. Soon rain is pelting on the deckhouse roof, running off in wind-whipped strings. Raib cups it in his hand and splashes his face, then drinks some, gasping.
I tellin you, Vemon, to drink fresh rain dat way is something
good
. Better den rum, darlin.
Dass what dey call fair-weather rain! After
dat
rain come fair weather!
Raib, who has turned away, whirls back.
Fair-weather rain! Listen to dat! De wind gone rise again today, and be just as bad again tomorrow!
Mon
! I suppose you too drunk to see de sky last evenin? We gone to have
wind
, mon!
Vemon retracts his neck into his bony shoulders. A limp collar much too big for him and the big striped cap that presses down his ears makes the helmsman’s neck look thin and unprotected. Though sober now, he is still shaky. He gums and mutters, sucking his lower lip; he hums and curses, casting dark looks at the world from beneath his cap.
WIND!
The wind rises as the morning grows, to twenty knots or better, blowing crests off the big seas that cross the small bows of the
Eden
. The broken blues are flecked with torn sargassum.
Dat gulfweed never die, y’know—dat same piece dere were floatin by in Guineaman times, when old Neale Walker sunk de
Genoese
on de Pedro Bank.
In the wheelhouse, the Captain stares into the south. On the floor, Buddy sits reading, his back to the deckhouse wall. Beside Buddy is a red scholar’s bag of imitation leather.
I were not lookin for dis wind, I tellin you dat.
Vemon call dat rain fair-weather rain—
Fair-weather rain! You hear me, boy? Don’t listen to dat fool—he fill your head with trash! De weather is something dat is too important to be a fool about if you wants to keep your life on de bleak ocean! (
somberly
) I ’spect you to watch dat sky very careful dis evenin, and tell me what you read dere.
I try to, Papa.
Tryin not enough if a
hurricane
comin down on you, I tell you dat! You got to
do
it!
Raib bangs the bulkhead with the flat of his palm, then speaks again.
When de sun’s goin down on de horizon, a turtler must look out to de sunset. Supposin you havin a red sunset, and when you look back into de east, you see red above de blue. Well, dat is good weather: moderate weather or calm. Blue above de red means blusterous weather, prob’ly squally or plenty of breeze, and if you see it real gray, dat means blusterous weather, too. Red evenin sky and underneath is dark—well, dat is good red weather.
Raib turns to face the boy for the first time, and now his voice is quiet and intense.
Now where de wind will be blowin
from
depend on de way dat de stars hang. If de Milky Way hang on a northeasterly-south-southwesterly range across de sky, dere will come a southeasterly wind. East-to-southeasterly wind. If you see her range more southeasterly and northwesterly, dat means a northeasterly wind. And if she rangin almost west to east, de wind will be southwesterly …
This is the U.S. Weather Station at Swan Island. Here is the report: For the Southwest Caribbean, winds east and southeast, nineteen to twenty-five knots, through Monday. State of the sea: choppy. Barometric pressure at sea level: twenty-nine decimal nine nine and steady
.
Got a radio, huh—
dat
something new!
It new, okay, but it don’t
send
. Dey messages comin at me from all over de goddom Caribbean, but come down to
sendin
, de sonofabitch is quiet as a conch!
Raib turns in time to see Byrum wink at Athens. Byrum clears his throat as Athens grins.
One time I was over to Swan Island; went up dere to de weather station. Couldn’t come near, dem Yankees got so many bad dogs to keep you off.
Spies, mon. Got spies in Caymans, too, most likely.
What dey spy on at Swan Island? De sprat birds? Used to be de Glidden family raise plenty nice cattle over dere—now de Yankees in dere with bad dogs!
Bad dogs protect de spies, mon. One thing spies don’t like, and dat is people spyin on dem. Oh, dey
hates
dat, mon!
Well, what dem Yankees doin is, dey broadcastin to Cuba—we heard all dem spies yellin at de time of de Bay of Pigs. Got dem bad dogs dere to keep people off while dey tellin de Cubans what dey s’posed to be thinkin about Cuba. After dey gets done with dat, dey tell dem all about de land of de free and de home of de brave.
As Speedy watches, Will rigs trolling lines, baiting his hooks with strips of white sail canvas smeared with lard. The lines bend away to leeward, over the rolling wake, dipping and sailing in the wind. In the distance, northbound plover, dark and fast, beat across the long slow courses of the shearwaters.
Call dat a bait?
When I ain’t got nothin better. (
sighs
) Copm Steadman dere on de
Majestic
used to say dat in de spring dey eat bird meat half de time, dey was so many of dem periodical birds comin aboard—snipes and all like dat. Now de people killin
everything
, and dey ain’t nothin in de month of April but a few dem little swallers.
Maybe we get fish dis day, Mist’ Will. You all set dere for de greediest one.
One time under sail, crossin de banks, we hit de tides correctly and we got three hundred pound of fish in one hour and a half. Three hundred pound, mon. On two lines. We got jacks, and den we got bonita, and den we got dorado, and den we got albacore.
Maybe de boat cotch better under sail. So quiet dat way—she just rush along.
De only thing is, now she go straight, she don’t have to beat. If de wind be fair or no fair, she go straight. Dat right, Copm Raib?
Well, good men hard to get now for de sailin boat—de work is harder, and dey work in de night and in de day. De times is changin. You fellas wantin dis goddom progress cause you
are lazy. I never wanted it some way, but I got to get on with life, so I make my peace with it.
Dass de way de world go—modern time, mon.
Modern time, huh? In de old days, I wouldn’t have no eighteen children to rear up like I got now, cause a mon could count on de half of dem bein dead before de age of ten—only de strongest ones survivin. Now dey
all
survivin, just like Buddy dere. Call dat progress? Children by de litter—can’t even remember de names! Buddy dere, he Wordsworth or Jim Eden—
Sonny is Wordsworth, Papa. I Jim Eden.