Far Tortuga

by Peter Matthiessen

  Dat Brown should had dat engine oiled, dass right enough.

  Dat ain’t no reason, Will! De reason is, we set sail in dis half-ass fashion, with no cook, no proper engineer, no rangers—

  Dere weren’t time. (sighs) Copm Raib say de world gainin on him.

  Dass it, so now we hurryin, only we runnin de engines at half speed!

  He breakin dem in.

  You come all de way up from Honduras—dey ain’t broken in?

  Well, dere’s dat shaft on de port engine.

  Mon, dat vibration mostly in his head! He don’t know nothin about engines! You see de way we work like donkeys on dat windlass dere, and dat wind blowin? With dem engines, he could had ride forward over de hook, and slack dat chain—save ten minutes when de wind blowin!

  I don’t know, mon. As a coptin, he okay. Got to give de mon dat much; he know de sea. It only de way he treat de men—dat de back-time way.

  He a wind coptin, dass de trouble. He a sailin mon, and he used to de old-time way. All his life he been ziggin and zaggin, he don’t know how to go straight.

  With sunrise, the wind freshens. Iron seas rise in the Eden’s wake, picking up her stern so high that her propellers churn the surface, then sliding her down the sea’s back, to wallow in the trough. The swells pass on beneath the bow, unrolling in broad ranks toward the mainland.

  How de boy doin, Doddy? He kind of quiet.

  He seasick, dat de motter with him. I should had left him home into de school, but he like to hang around with me some way.

  Raib opens his jackknife and shuts it again, using one hand.

  He a good child, never give me trouble. (laughs) Maybe dass what de motter is—lack of spirit.

  Buddy very nice. He got nice manners.

  Oh, I seen to dat! De manners dat dey is dese days … well, some things he do very good. De way he prog dem lobster, dat is very clever. Rum Point Channel. Swim right among de reef, mon.

  Well, dass very fine.

  Speedy, I believe dat he lack nerve. You remember de other day when de ocean was so high, he look kind of coward dere.

  He only seventeen, mon.

  When I were seventeen, I were sailin to de cays as pilot!

  Well, dass fine too.

  Went rangin when I was fourteen! Den I sail one trip in de crew, and I spent dat trip up on de masthead lookin, and seein, and rememberin! And de next voyage, dey had no choice but to put me dere in de port boat as pilot!

  De boy somebody else, got to remember dat.

  De manner dat he stand dere lookin at me …

  Maybe he stand dere lookin at you cause he hopin dat one day you look at him.

  Foreign vessels intending to engage in the turtle fishery on the Miskito Banks must register with the customs officials of the Republic of Nicaragua, and go to port to clear again upon departure from these waters. In addition to port fees, foreign vessels must pay a tax on every head of turtle to be transported from the territorial waters of the Republic of Nicaragua.

  Toward noon, the Eden comes in under Cape Gracias. Because of the heavy surge, the ship drops anchor well offshore.

  A coast of giant mangrove backed by low hills, heavy sky: there is no smoke nor sign of human presence. A low bar where dirty waves break in a fringe is the outer delta of the Coco River, which carries so much silt from inland jungles that even here, a mile at sea, the water is the color of dead mud.

  The Eden swings heavily on her chain. Now her bow heads up into the wind, and from the pulley on the mast her port boat is swung over the rails. When the ship rolls, the catboat bangs against the hull, and the sound brings the Captain from the deckhouse. He is wearing clean shirt and pants, mostly unbuttoned, and street shoes and a bent Panama hat.

  Papa? It say here in my book dat Cape Gracias a Dios got dat name from Christopher Columbus—

  Hold her off dere! Hold dat boat off!

  Dem short masts, Copm Raib! Can’t swing her clear!

  Can’t use an oar to hold her off while she goin down? Never heard about dat?

  With dat short swing—

  Nemmine! Men dat know dere job—

  You sayin—

  Nemmine, I said!

  Copm Raib? Copm Raib? You all dressed up! You lookin like you plannin on gettin married!

  Dis how you looked when you got married? Wouldn’t s’prise me. (shouts) Buddy! Run get dat shoe box with de ship’s documents! Who goin ashore?

  I willin, Papa.

  Go get dat box, I said! (grunts) Okay dere, Speedy. Nobody else? Don’t like rowin? Well, c’mon den, Vemon, I get some work out of you yet!

  How about Athens? Athens never—

  He sick! Dass what dey tell me about dat one! Dat one too sick to work!

  Dat ain’t justice!

  I say, get in de boat! I take care of de justice around here! Hold her off dere, Speedy! Speedy, you row in de middle till I see how you do!

  Copm? Know de channel? What you do is dis—

  You sayin I don’t know my way on de Miskita Coast? By God, Byrum, I never thought I hear dat!

  Nemmine, den. But I was here on de A.M. Adams since you was last here—

  Shove off dere! Let go dat line!

  The blue catboat falls downwind from the Eden. Raib stands upright in the stern, holding a short blunt Miskito paddle. Speedy and Vemon step the mast, a spruce pole with a piece of dirty canvas wrapped around it; the mast is hand-adzed, with flat facets, like rail fence. The sail is gaff-rigged, and there is a small jib which Vemon secures to the bow: in place of a tiller, there are rudder lines, secured to both ends of a yoke fixed to the head of the rudder, like the top of a T.

  Now the wind thumps in the sail, and the catboat scuds away toward the coast.

  Copm Raib? Which gang you got me in, Copm Raib?

  You be with Will in dis port boat. You and Athens; you got your partner dere to pull for you. (laughs) I take Byrum in de starboard gang with Speedy here, cause Speedy green, ain’t dat right, Speedy? Green but willin!

  I do my domnedest, Doddy.

  Den dere’s Buddy …

  Nemmine about Buddy—dat is my business.

  Copm Raib? Buddy gettin a full share, ain’t he? I mean to say, seem like dere an extra man aboard—don’t need but eight.

  Goddom it, with dis lot, I need an extra mon! And maybe de extra one is you, ever think of dat? Goddom drunken—

  What I mean is, Copm Raib, I think I like to change into your catboat, so I learn more. Dat fella you got dere for mate, he just got too much mouth for me.

  Raib laughs quietly for a long time.

  Now I heard plenty said about Will, but dat is one thing dat I never heard about. Will pretty quiet when he ain’t got something to say. Ain’t like his boy. Neither one of dem got sense, but Will got sense enough to keep his mouth shut when his brain ain’t workin.

  Dass right! You recall dat time you told him he were wrong? And den he—

  Raib starts to laugh again; he wipes his eyes, looking shy.

  Well, I guess you ain’t de only one dat got faults, Vemon, it just seem dat way. But Will a pretty good sailor, I got to say dat. Dey don’t come no better den dat in days like dis. I mean to say, you couldn’t hardly expect a first-class turtler; ain’t many of dem no more. Will can pretty well take care of de job on de vessel deck, and set de nets too, he can set de nets. But de important part dere dat he don’t know much about, and dat is where to put de nets. He not a first-class pilot.

  Dass right. Dass—

  But come to seamanship, he as good as you will find today. Him and Byrum, dey as good as you will find today.

  Well, seamanship, dat is one place dat I got Will beat.

  A silence.

  I bet you thought dat Will had seaman’s papers, dat right, Copm Raib?

  Raib cocks his head.

  How soon after we gets home you gone have your money spent on rum? Can you drink it all up in one week?

  Huh! Maybe I won’t drink at all!

  Dat would
be de best thing, darlin. Dat would be de best.

  Vemon struggles to look injured.

  Once I went two, three months without touchin no rum! I was workin! My own provision ground. Over dere north of Salt Creek, between Salt Creek and Batabano. Yams. Papaws. Had a grass piece with a cow in it! Dat time I was workin for myself, de provision ground of Vemon Evers—

  Vemon Dilbert Evers.

  Vemon Dilbert Evers. And during de time dat I was workin for myself, I never touch it once. Not even once.

  Dass very fine. Have your own ground. Man dat got a cow, he got it made. I plont some young trees now, small plonts. Later on, Speedy got fruit. You know? On my own ground. In de Bay Islands.

  Vemon sets his striped cap hard upon his head.

  In dem days, over dere north of Salt Creek, I were feelin good. Dat were my chance in dis life, and I lost it.

  Buddy, Byrum and Athens are dozing in the stern. Will is mending net, and Wodie sits on the galley roof, bare black legs swinging. Brown is perched on his blue fuel drum, staring at nothing and singing with no expression.

  I can’t help (voice cracks) shit!

  I can’t help it

  If I still in love with you

  Delta. A circle of dark birds over the trees.

  Oh, yes. I work a little on de turtlin boat, learn how dey do; den I go home. I givin up de sea, work on de land. I workin my plontation. I can hoe, mon.

  I tellin you, Speedy, some dese young fellas dat dey got dese days, dey can’t even work a hoe. Dat Conwell dat is son to Will, he one of dem. It like Old Copm Jim dere, what I heard him say to de Tailor from Jamaica. (laughs) Copm Jim, he must be close to ninety years of age, and dis day he fightin mad dat de Tailor from Jamaica made so much money from just settin dere and tailorin.

  In Jamaica?

  No, mon. Tailor from Jamaica. He tryin to establish hisself. Come from Jamaica about twenty-five years ago. Dey calls him de Tailor from Jamaica for dat reason.

  Got no name, huh?

  In Jamaica, prob’ly, dey give him some kind of a name. Anyways, Copm Jim say, You ever tote wood? Mend net? Work a hoe? Copm say, How many grandchildren you got? (laughs) Cause dat is de one thing, and de only thing dat Copm Jim has got, and dat is grandchildren. And great-grandchildren.

  Copm Raib? Copm Jim got grandchildren he don’t even know about!

  Dass it. Poor old fella, dass about all he do got, and dat ain’t much, in dat family. So he say to de Tailor from Jamaica, How many grandchildren you got? And den he say it couple times again, just so he could hear de words.

  Brown? Like singin? Cause dere was an old song dat we had down at East End, it were a song we called de Hox-bill Song. Calvert Conally and a guy by de name of Garwin Rankin used a catboat, used a trap net, to cotch turtle, and dey were around on de northeastern part of de island, called Bluff Bay, fishenin and trappin. And dere was dis hox-bill dat were not in de nets, dey claim; dey hook him up with a fish hook from de bottom. But Bonnie Dixon had a net sot, and he claimed de net were tangled, and when he examined de turtle, de turtle had line marks on it. So he took de turtle from dese boys, and Calvert grandmother, she gave Bonnie Dixon de name of Black Cat, and dey made a song off of it. I would have to set back a little to remember all de words, but I remember it because we used to use it as a dance tune.

  It was a holiday in de month of May

  Calvert and Garwin went Bluff Bay

  Caught one hox-bill, so dey say

  But Old Black Cat went and took it away …

  Lord, what a miser-y

  Took away dat cash mo-ney

  People, people will be sorry to see

  De graveyard for Bonnie and de gallows for me!

  Slowly Brown opens his eyes and mouth.

  Bailar? Dance? To dat?

  Grandmother say, Dat Old Black Cat

  I hope to God it will make him fat

  And he mother say, I will cut he throat

  If your Uncle Hedley don’t take de case to court …

  Wodie wears his red-black-white checkered vest cut from flour sacking, and seat-patched dungaree shorts. Heedless of Brown’s stare, he laughs, keeping time with his bare heels against the cabin side.

  Dere was a boy name Bertram say:

  If Old Black Cat don’t give me some

  I gone to drink Uncle Willoughby Rum

  Den I go out on a spree

  And kick Old Bonnie right in three!

  Oh, dat were a big song, mon!

  Dat no fuckin song, mon! No fuckin love in it! (outraged) Amor!

  Well, Brownie, I just tellin you a little bit about Cayman, y’know. Pass de time dat way.

  Shit! No amor!

  Coco River.

  Banging in over the bar, the boat ships water and the shoe box of ship’s documents is soaked. Raib curses brutally, staring about him; in the stillness, the distant jungle waits at the far bank of the river.

  The shallow delta is a mile across, scarred with stumps of twisted trees. To the west is the wall of mangrove, silent, under yellowing gray cumulus; to the east a barrier islet of low scrub. On the tip of the islet, against a thickened sea sky, figures run and wave.

  Ain’t gone to help dem?

  The Captain squints at the far figures.

  Prob’ly dey refugees from some goddom place. (pause) Prob’ly dey desperate for a boat. You want to go in dere? (pause) In times gone back, a mon would go to help people, but in dese days dey too many dat needs help.

  Make me feel funny, Doddy. S’posin it were us in trouble—

  De Coptin tellin you, Honduras, we go in dere, it could be us and pretty domn quick!

  Modern time, mon.

  Lord, what a miser-y

  Took away dat cash mo-ney

  People, people will be sorry to see

  De graveyard for Bonnie and de gallows for me!

  Wodie lies back on the galley roof, sits up again. Brown remains motionless on the blue oil drum.

  Oh yes, Brownie, it gone to be dry weather. When de risin sun throw out rays at de horizon, it gone to be good weather, good times, and when she go down, and de rays comin dis way (gestures) shinin back on you, you gone to have plenty rain. (sighs) Today all de rays left her; she just a pure ball of light. And dat means dry, dry weather.

  All dat old kind shit no use to me in life.

  Well, dose are de things we studies at East End, not havin radios to tell us when de hurricanes is comin. Now in Caymans we ain’t lost anybody to hurricane since 1932. Dat were de heavy storm dat struck down Prospect.

  Brown spits toward the Miskito Coast.

  Dat old mon no pay me. No dinero.

  Anyways, all along East End de storm had washed de sand away, and fill de channels. Dese are real channels, not de flats in de coral reef where ships goin aground in hurricane break de coral down so small boats can come and go. Where one old wreck struck on de reef was de flat we called Old Anchor Flat, but dat growin up again long years ahead of me.

  When dis voyage finish, I be naked.

  Oh, yes! De corals is fillin it in.

  Brown, picking at his rags, suddenly sings.

  I can’t help (voice cracks) shit! Help it …

  If I still in love with you!

  Oh, yes! De corals is fillin it in.

  The two fall silent. Wodie gazes westward.

  In the delta, the wind dies. The men lower the mast, and the boat drifts back on the brown flood. They run the oars through thatchrope thongs bent to the gunwales.

  Raib takes up his Miskito paddle, which is heavy and short, with heart-shaped blade. Vemon is at the bow oars, Speedy amidships. Vemon bends with the long pull of a fisherman; Speedy has the choppy stroke of a man used to a paddle.

  Dey calls you Speedy, dat right? Well, speedy ain’t no way to row. You gone to row a catboat, you gots to row!

  Vemon right dis one time, darlin. I don’t think you got de theory into it yet.

  You learn me, Doddy. I willin.

  Don’t use your arms, den
—use your back.

  Dass right, put your domn back into it, mon—I sick of corryin you!

  Vemon, it a very poor thing to shout at other people in dat manner when dey is learnin. You gots to figure dat each and every person got dere faults, and dat while you is thinkin dat you yourself is faultless, you may be de wrong one into de case. So what I try to do—

  Copm Raib? I knowed you figure dat every mon got his fault, Copm Raib, but I never knowed dat you was so much against speakin out about dat fault!

  Speedy’s laugh is a squeal of pleased surprise. Vemon sinks low at his oars, so that his striped railroad cap is barely visible to the Captain over the tattered shoulder of Speedy’s T-shirt. The crown of the striped cap has a rusted button.

  Vemon frowns at his own shoes, clearing his throat.

  Oh yes, dat were it. (gruffly) Dat provision ground north of Salt Creek were my chance in life and den I lost it.

  Raib makes three quick powerful strokes, using the paddle like an extension of his heavy arm. Then he gives a little cough and begins to laugh, a soft sweet laugh that collapses his broad face. The mirth rolls up slowly from his belly, until his body quakes with it, and his eyes weep; he stamps his foot in the bilges of the boat.

  Speedy squeals anew; he cannot row. Vemon, too, dares a little sniffing laugh; resting his oars, looking innocent, he scratches.

  Vemon Dilbert Evers! You okay, Vemon! You not such a poor fella as I always thought!

  The Eden. Noon. Wodie is washing his flour-sacking shirt.

  … wreck at de lower end of East End, dat was de old Storborn Head: dat wreck struck dere when my grandmother was a little girl, an old coffee wreck, and she say dass when de rats came to Cayman. She say de rats came ashore off dat ship in rafts and infested all de land.