Brown knocks his sombrero back to look at Wodie.
Por qué you t’row dis old-time shit on me?
Well, y’see, Brownie, dem other fellas knows about Caymans—
I Sponnish, mon! I travel, mon, see de big towns! I ain’t no Cayman nigger!
Wodie’s good eye comes to rest on Brown’s dark arms and bare dark knees: he wrings out his shirt as Brown curses him.
We ain’t shamed of color in de Cayman Islands, Brownie.
The engineer, still hunched on the fuel drum rim, turns his ragged back to Wodie.
I mind my business, entiende?
Black trees, gray clouds, gray sky.
The catboat moves slowly up the estuary. A bigua surfaces, dives forward, surfaces again and flies.
Dat bird more like a seal, de way it duck under dere!
I seen seals in a pitcher show one time. Dat were de year dat I sailed up de Delaware, and I went to dat pitcher show in Chester, Pennsylvania.
Dey had seals in Chester, huh?
In de back-time now, dey had seals here in de cays.
No, brother. Seals is north—
I tellin you, Vemon, dey had seals. Call dem monk seals. I read about’m.
Read? Dat don’t mean nothin. I can read a little bit myself, and some of de things it said dere—
Seals! One of de fellas saw one, I don’t believe it were thirty years ago, over dere at de Coxcones! Reginal Barney, dat went down on de Majestic. And den dere is Seal Cay—why you think dey calls it dat? (more quietly) Dey killed off de seals just like dey killin off green turtle, and de crocodiles before dem. De snipes is gone now. Ain’t no iguana left up at Northwest. Mahogany, logwood, fustic—all dat gone now! Dey cuttin it all away!
A waste of mud bars and stranded trees, set against the silence of the jungle.
The water freshens; the river margins turn a livid green. High on the banks are huge trunks of mahogany from the inland forest.
fish ripples
a white egret, transfixed
slow circling hawks, inland
passing rain
At a fork in the river Raib chooses the west branch, which dies eventually in a slough choked with blue hyacinth.
The still birds deepen the silence.
Talk about hell, dis a hell of a place, dass all I sayin. A hell of a place. In a civilized country now, you don’t got to be a explorer to go through de customs. (angrily) Seem to me I been up dis Godforsaken river all my life, and every time it changin, it never look de same!
Byrum sayin—
Dis river changin, dass all! A mon can’t count on it. Ever’ domn time you try to go up dis river, you gots to hunt out a new channel, or you die dere in de mud, like one dem old stumps.
I glad I not here in de night, with all dem stumps. All dat hair and arms on dem—
It de domn Sponnish! Dey don’t put markers out, not even a stick! Every place you go in de lands of de Sponnish, it de same! And when finally you finds de channel, it lead to nothin. One hut dere, and a couple Indians! Boy, you know dat you come to de end of de world! Cape Gracias a Dios! De end of de world is Gracias a Dios!
The tide is falling in the estuary, and soon the boat is grounding on soft bars.
I were six days away from marryin dat woman when she start foolin round.
Who she fool with?
Oh, she not fool much, just a little bit, but Speedy don’t like dat shit: you is or you isn’t. Den I find Miss Pansy.
So you marryin Miss Pansy.
What dey calls common-law. De old kind of marriage, dat is disappearin fast. Least in de poor people. Don’t get around to dat.
Too busy cootin. (shouts) Can’t cross dere, Vemon—don’t see dem birds wadin in de shallers?
De one thing dat I thankful for, we ain’t got rivers in Caymans. Dat right, Copm Raib?
Dommit to hell, I never see it bad as dis in forty years!
The Captain jumps overboard in his shoes and sinks up to his knees in mud; his curse hangs in the air. Vemon and Speedy ship oars and climb out of the boat, which is careened onto her side and hauled across the shallows; the mud is so soft that the men must lean on the boat to extricate their knees after each step.
Heat and mosquitoes. In the humid air, their shirts suck at their backs.
Stop leanin on de gunwales while Speedy pullin!
Leanin?
Afternoon half gone and we not even found de channel yet! We gone miss another day’s fishenin!
It ain’t me was leanin—
We lucky for dis little wind, Doddy—hear dem miskita? I can hear dem all de way over dere in de mongrove. If dat wind quit, we finish.
Shit! Miskita on de one side, and over on de other side, we get too close to dat little cay, de sand flies! Out here we okay—all we got is snakes and leeches, maybe a stingaree!
And dey got fresh-water shark here. Nicaragua. Dat right, mon.
Oh, I believe dat! Anything bad dat dey ain’t got in Honduras, dey bound to have it in Nicaragua!
On the far shore, two Indians in a dugout cayuca slip along under the buttonwood.
Talkin about miskitas now: Miskita Cay dere, Copm Raib—dey name dat for de Indians? Or de miskitas?
Miskita Cay name for de Indians dat used to live dere in de former time, but de Indians might be named for dis stinkin coast dat got de name Mosquitia, and dat name come from de sand flies, which de domn Sponnish calls mosquitia out of dere ignorance.
You speak Sponnish, Copm?
No! I be shamed to speak it!
I tellin you, dis pullin ain’t no sailor’s work, dat right, Copm Raib?
Dis donkey work! It take a donkey to work like dis! And dis port boat leakin, see dat? She a new boat and she leakin—dass de way dey make boats in dese goddom days!
Dat mate you got, he say dis port boat leak cause you never put flowers on de bow—
Flowers? Will say dat?
Boy? You got dis kind rivers over dere in Honduras, boy?
You speakin to me?
De colored dere, dey used to what we calls donkey work, I guess.
Speedy stops pulling long enough to spit.
Dass right, nigger. We ain’t like you. We ain’t afraid of work.
Don’t get discourage about Vemon; he can’t help hisself, poor fella.
I not discourage. I never been discourage in my life. I just walk ahead every day. I got four suits aboard de vessel, and my family got plenty clothes. I a hard-workin mon, work hard all de days of my life.
Ain’t like your partner, den.
When Brown done with dis voyage, he gone be naked. Dat what he say every night when he lie down: When dat old coptin done with me I gone be naked.
The Captain’s thick toenails are caked with river mud.
He were naked when he come aboard! I give dat fella his first chance! I bought him dem shoes he wearin, and now he think he somebody! But he don’t know nothin, and he don’t want to learn!
Brown ain’t got a willin mind—
Top of dat, he stupid! He so stupid dat he—
Dass what I think, Copm Raib!
You think? Dat don’t mean nothin!
Don’t mean nothin?
Stop leanin on dat gunwale, I tellin you!
Brown say he were with Che in Guatemala—maybe he mean he were down dere at de same time with Che. Or maybe havin Brownie with him were de reason dat Che lost! (hoots) And after he got done with Che, he went over to de Yankees.
Che?
Don’t know about Che Guevara in Grand Cayman? (grins) Oh, dey too much water between Cayman and de world, don’t know about Che!
How de hell Brown find his way to Guatemala? Dat fella call de manifold mon-fool, he such a fuckin idiot. So what he doin for de Yankees? Spy? Fella stupid as dat, now, dey ain’t nobody would suspect him—
Oh, dey had a camp in Guatemala for de ones was goin to de Bay of Pigs. Lot of food dere and no work, mostly fellas like Brown dat called dereselves Cubans and went over dere to eat de food.
He say he done some soldierin—dat where he done it?
Soldierin! (pause) No, mon. Dat were Colombia, back up in de country. “La Violencia,” mon. Oh, dat were very uncomely, what de banditos done down dere. Killed people by de thousands.
You were runnin guns down dere, ain’t dat right, Copm Raib? Makin good money?
Raib smacks his paddle on the river, sending a dash of water over Vemon. The water drips untended from the bill of Vemon’s cap, and from his chin; he squinches his small face, but does not wipe it.
You gettin smart with me again?
Me?
And after dat he went to de Bay of Pigs?
No, mon. But de Yankees thought Brown must be some kind of a Cuba nigger, so dey sent him up dere to Miami. Den dey found out he never heard of Cuba. So while dey was tryin to figure what country to send him back to, he run off and wandered around on de Gulf Coast a while, living in de woods, stealin off de land.
Stealin? Didn’t look for no job?
Mon, he say dey so many niggers in de woods it hard to find a place to piss. Jamaicans. Haiti. People starvin, and dey goin to de States. De woods dere are full of strangers, lookin into de houses in de night. Dey no record of dese wild niggers but where Brown was, dey was raidin de houses, so de police come out into de woods with dogs. Brown sneak down to de coast and dis coptin say, Okay, nigger, you can work your passage, and Brown say, Donde va? De Desirade. She bound for Ceiba, but she got caught in de hurricane, put in dere to French Harbour. When Brown jump ship, all dat he had were a pair of pants and a black T-shirt, I remember dat. Didn’t speak hardly no English till he come to Roatán.
Who give him de name of Brown?
Mon, I don’t know. Pick dat up in de States, I guess, long with de name of Smith.
Midafternoon. The tide still falling. A mosquito whines.
The catboat is barely a mile above the delta, and the customs post is far away upriver. Vemon, exhausted, mutters to himself. Speedy tastes the water, spits it out. Raib reviles the thick blind flood and aimless winds.
A broken sky.
Strings of ibis and egrets, bone white, turn pale pink as they cross a broken sunset.
De last time I come down dis river, Copm Raib, we corried a drum of water and de crew; dis time we be lucky—
Turn dis domn boat around. TURN HER AROUND!
Copm Raib? We come back at sunrise, Copm Raib, and try again!
You domn fool! It be low tide at sunrise, just like now! I ain’t gone to lose another day! No, mon! We sailin for Bobel dis very evenin!
The boat drifts down the river in soft rain.
A school of mullet, parted, sprays the surface; a heron quawks once, passing over, under a hidden moon.
At the delta, the catboat is hauled across salt wavelets on the bar and launched into the surf. There are no stars; the sea and shore are dark. Raib has taken a range on the way in, using the islet point and a great stump; adjusting his heading, he glances back every few moments down the straight line of his wake.
Rain pocks on the night sea.
A masthead light, blurred by the rain.
Well, I glad to see dat one of dem got sense.
Still see de light? I lost it.
Dey got a squall dere now. But I got a bearin.
Raib shakes his head. He sighs.
I got a bearin.
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.
Far Tortuga Page 10
