Far Tortuga

by Peter Matthiessen

  Cause I a East Ender!

  Cause you a East Ender.

  Speedy?

  Speedy returns into the galley shadows.

  Speedy? Y’see, Speedy, in de days of de old sailin boats, de schooners used to go to Lucea and Port Antonio, Sav-la-Mar, Kingston Town and all dat to sell turtle. So de Jamaicans dere had a way of teasin de Caymanians, dey called all Caymanians Uncle John-John. Hey, Uncle John-John, Johnny-Whyna, Johnny-Tuttle! Johnny-Whyna, dat how dey say Johnny-Cake. So dem old wind coptins, dey didn’t want nothin to do with dese Jamaican boys around de dock: dey say, Look, mon, ye goddom pee-can Jamaican wharf-rat bastard, ye better get home! And de Jamaican say, Uncle John-John, ye kanakee ras, ye cocksure as dat, I gone break your ass out!

  On hands and knees on the galley roof, squealing with laughter, Wodie lowers his head into the doorway to see Speedy’s face. Sitting immobile on the ware chest, Speedy regards Wodie’s one-eyed inverted head without expression. The face hangs in the blue sky. Then Wodie straightens, his grin uncertain, and lies back on the galley roof. Soon his heels thump soft on the gray siding; he is singing.

  East-southeast to Edinburgh Reef, across the beam seas of the trades.

  Spray, flying clouds, a glint of brine in the hard wood of the decks.

  Under the roof of the port companionway, Will and Byrum construct a bunk for Captain Andrew out of the boards used to build cargo racks in the turtle hold.

  Speedy is laboring his pots, using the sea spray to help rinse; he works with such style that Buddy, handing him each pot, is an impediment.

  At the helm, Athens is coughing. Behind him, Byrum and Vemon work on the broken taffrail.

  Wodie, on the galley roof, turns the salt fish.

  Raib is in his unfinished wheelhouse, gazing down at the new engines.

  Brown is perched on his blue fuel drum, hugging his knees; he stares away to sea, unseeing.

  Sharks, mon! See dat cobber knife? Off de port bow—wait, dey down behind de wave—dere! Up again! See something white? Big sharks, mon!

  something white! Run tell de helm to head her south a little till we see

  manta?

  Raib climbs the masthead as the engines slow.

  Copm Raib?

  You see it, Copm Raib?

  Copm Raib?

  Beneath the surface, off to port, a pale shape seems to grow, gathering and unfolding, lifting and falling on the sparkling swells. Sharks circle at a little distance, the dark fins mute in shining seas. As the ship nears, the fins withdraw beneath the surface. The shape turns as the ship passes, and long shark shadows loom and fade.

  Because the Eden is broadside to the seas, she is riding heavily, and Raib’s figure, high in the rigging, is black on the veering sun.

  Raib? Copm Raib?

  —still see it?

  Copm Raib—!

  —dead whale, I said!

  Dead whale? Ten fathom long? How come dem sharks goin round and round, and never touchin it!

  Was you up on de masthead, Byrum? You see it better den me? DEAD WHALE, I SAID!

  horizon

  Ocean rainbow.

  … the name of your vessel? Please repeat your position … latitude 15’30 north, longitude 85’21 west, is that correct? Over.

  Vemon lays his chisel down.

  Somebody in trouble, Byrum.

  Ain’t surprise. Dis goddom wind.

  Dat over by Cape Cimarron, along dat way—dey goin aground.

  Bad thing to go aground along dis coast—ain’t no help in two hundred mile.

  Athens shouts at them from the helm.

  Rob you and kill you—dass de kind of help you gone receive on de Sponnish coast. Dey all thieves and smugglers!

  Look who talkin! Didn’t you sail one time with Copm Desmond?

  Immigrants, mon. (laughs) Now dat is a good business. We corry dem up to Tampa. Desmond charge dem a fat fee, you can b’lieve dat. Copm Desmond Eden. He say, Dis is de land of de free and de home of de brave—now get de hell off my vessel!

  Tampa? Dat is where my papers is at, in de Union Hall!

  Oh, Desmond very clever, mon. He used to corry a bunch of turtle on de deck, bought dem cheap out de bottom somebody’s crawl dere in North Sound—de half of’m was dead when he bought’m. And den he take dese nineteen fellas dat wanted to go to de U.S.A. to seek dere fortune. So Immigration say, Tell me, Copm, what you do with all dem men on a vessel only fifty-three ton and fifty-five foot in length? And Desmond say, Why, dey help unload de turtle. Take four mens to each turtle. (laughs) And a couple days after dat, when he went to clear, Immigration say, Where in de fuck is de crew? And Desmond look at me and de cook, which was about all dey was remained. Look puzzled dere a minute. Goodness, he say, Couple fellas must got drunk or something.

  Fingering his one button, Athens sniggers.

  Well, Immigration didn’t know whether to swaller dat or not—he look pretty vexed dere. So Desmond say, I hopes dere be no hard feelins. And Immigration say, We see about dat. So Desmond slip out of dere dat night, and de next time he lease a different vessel and corry dem over to Texas. Dat time he had a little bit everything—Cubans, Jamaicans, Haiti, everything—dey all look raggedy as Brown dere. And he say, Dis is de land of opportunity—now get de hell off my vessel! And he land dem on de coast dere. In de night time.

  Copm Desmond Eden!

  Domn good thing it was de land of opportunity, cause Desmond cook every last centavo dat dey had fore he let’m off of de boat.

  I remember one time—Copm Bennie, I b’lieve it was—he wanted to lease dat old shark scow dat Desmond had, and Desmond demanded three hundred pounds for ten days. I told Bennie, I say, Mon, if dat vessel worth thirty pounds a day after all de crewin paid, why in de hell ain’t Desmond out dere fishin sharks three hundred and sixty-five days in de year?

  Well, dere is one thing Desmond know and dat is sharks.

  I told you why—cause he a shark hisself!

  Hear dat? Come to Desmond Eden, Raib can hear you in a goddom hurricane.

  You been in dat sharkskin game dere, ain’t you, Copm? On de Sponnish shore? I heard you was runnin guns dere, bringin back sharkskin.

  Raib comes down into the stern.

  Dass what de Administrator say, but he didn’t have de facts to face me with. I told de Administrator dat if he did not proceed in a more proper fashion, I take him outside and lynch him. (laughs) And he took dat very well, cause he a very polite little fella. (with contempt) De mon still green, and scared to flap his wing. Don’t have de guts to perform his duty. Dat time all de liquor from Cuba were found in de North Sound, only a few fathoms from de shore? And de so-called Member of de Legislature dat owned dat cargo, he run on de ticket dat forbid liquor in de islands, he tell de people of Caymans dat liquor bad for dem—

  Keep de price up dat way.

  Dass it. And de people of Caymans, dey so simple, dey so far into de back, dat dey b’lieve dat mon got dere interests in his heart, and dass where he got de big part of his votes—

  He weren’t convicted, and dass what counts.

  Dass what counts, you said, Byrum?

  I find Desmond all right.

  You find him “all right,” you said? (incredulous) Well, I tellin you dey didn’t always think dat way in de Cayman Islands! A mon had to be better den “all right,” or nobody foller him!

  All I said—

  De people of Caymans should have de sense to know dat dat mon never followed de truth! He go around yellin about progress, about bringin in oil bunkerin stations and gamblin, to make poor people rich; but it dose Yankees dat pay him off—dey de ones dat gone get rich! And de home people gone get frigged! And we don’t like dat, de Yankees gone find out we all commonists, and dey gone take over, mon—dat be dere little way! Oh, mon. I done a couple hitches on a United Fruit vessel, and I seen just how dey done in de small countries!

  Home of de brave, mon.

  Loud and clear, Cap, loud and clear. Come back, Sue Ann.

&
nbsp; —the Sue Ann, the Sue Ann. How do you read me? Over.

  You’re comin in good, Sue Ann. Loud and clear, Cap. Over.

  Well, that’s very fine, Cap, very fine, and thanks for the radio check. We’re under way now, everything A-O.K. and don’t expect no more trouble. You hittin any over that way?

  Just pickin, Cappie, just pickin. Somebody must have give ’em hell down here.

  Well, it ain’t like other years, Cap, I never seen it so poor as this. Gettin to be a desert around here.

  Roger. Well, that’s right, Cap, and so we will be clearin with you now, this is the Two Brothers, WG 6428—41, over and out.

  Roger. This is the Sue Ann, WG 6835—48, over and out.

  I knew a fella went by dat name, dey call him Roger Powery, cause his doddy give him de name of Roger.

  We got numbers like dem vessels, Copm Raib?

  Yah, mon. We de Number One.

  Dem is a couple dem big Yankee shrimp boats—I worked a hitch on dem. Dey crewed in Roatán. In de Bay Islands. Dey suckin de last shrimp out of de sea.

  De little vessels cotch big turtle and de big vessels cotchin shrimp.

  Dey wastes more den dey cotch. All de small shrimps get packed into de trawls, and by de time dey sort dem away, dey dead. No market for dat small shrimp, mon, so dey dump dat over by de tons. So I tell de coptin, Dass a bad thing, Copm, was tin food dat way—why not give it to de poor people? And he show me a bad face. He say, Where? And I say, Just put in any port along de Caribbean shore. So he tell me not to go agitatin amongst de crew or he get me arrested. (hoots) Call Speedy-Boy a commonist!

  Thought you was one of dem commonist spies, most likely.

  Spyin on de shrimp, mon, dat were me.

  Vemon throws his chisel down with a show of fury.

  Goddom commonists! (spits) One thing I ain’t gone to stand for and dat is a commonist! (voice rises) Why, dese goddom godless sonofabitches, dey come in dere to a democracy and commonize ever’thing dat way! I heard dat myself, right on de radio! (spits) SHIT! (triumphant pause) Y’hear me? I tellin you, I don’t go for dat shit, no mon! (fierce) I tellin you right here and now—if I was de President of de United States of America, I’d give de order to bomb out every last one of dem goddom Cubans—

  Vemon?

  make de world safe for democracy, goddom it! And God! Y’hear me! God!

  Vemon? You ever see a commonist? What de hell you know about it anyway, ceptin what dey give out on de Yankee radio?

  and safe for freedom! Dass right, freedom! And de forces of freedom! Dey know about freedom down dere in Honduras?

  Cause dat what we got in a democracy! And justice! And God! Y’hear me? GOD! And dem dirty goddom commonists comin in dere and tellin me what I must do! No, mon! Tellin a free mon what he must do? NO, mon!

  Free mon! Listen to dat idiot! He ain’t even free to drink hisself to death without workin like a donkey first to pay his rum! Ain’t had a shillin in his life dat some politician yellin about progress didn’t steal off’m, but he free, okay! He one free nigger, mon! He free to drown hisself or blow his brains out, either one he want! (shouts Vemon down) You a stupid mon, Vemon! You just de kind dem people need! Squawkin out everything dey tell you on de Yankee radio like some kind of a goddom parrot! Now pick dat chisel up and finish—ATHENS! DON’T LET HER FALL OFF IN DAT MANNER!

  Raib, contemplating Vemon, shakes his head, begins to laugh.

  Dat time in Honduras I checked on you, Vemon, to make certain you didn’t sneak ashore and go adrift on de Sponnish Coast—

  You checked on me? Nossir, Copm Raib, cause you knew I wasn’t goin ashore!

  I knew you wasn’t goin, dass right, darlin, but you didn’t know it yet. (laughs) Like de time dat woman you had dere, you told her you had no money. Yah, mon! (joyfully) Vemon Dilbert Evers! You could hear dat a goodly distance when dat woman slap poor old Vemon; flogged him with a double length of rope, dass what she done to dis poor old fella, and took all his money away from him. Ain’t dat right, Vemon? Went through his pockets while he layin on de ground!

  Well, she had a hell of a time gettin it. I told her, I say, Hon—

  I know you got money, she say, and you ain’t gone to drink it all away on me, not dis time! He say, No, Hon, I ain’t gots none! She say, I know you lyin—(with feeling) you goddom worthless—

  Mon! It Vemon woman where de woman’s-tongue tree gots de bad name!

  I had some of it spent behind her back already, y’know. I don’t let no domn bitch like dat—

  Oh, you a hard mon, Vemon! You one hard nigger, boy!

  At Edinburgh Reef, no land is visible, only broken patterns of white surf; even to leeward of the reefs, where the Eden anchors, the water is roiled and rough. Raib has no need of a chart to find good holding ground. From the masthead he finds the range where the reefs he in accordance with his memory, then makes a downward chop with his hand; the windlass rattles and the chain rumbles overboard. Engines idling, the Eden drifts downward to the full length of her anchor line, then comes up taut as the chain snubs her.

  THROW DEM BOATS OVERBOARD!

  The deck vibration dies, and the sea slop on the hull is loud. A shriek of pulleys: a catboat smacks onto the sea. The catboats are a faded water blue.

  Raib goes down into the starboard boat, and Will into the port; their crews pass down the gear. The Captain is shouting as he works, bashing the kellecks down.

  Green turtle like wild animals, mon! De more you harass dem, de fewer dey gets! Dey likes de quiet of de deep, you gots to come up on dem like a shadder. Dey hear dem Jamaica motors tearin up de water, dey gone to move on!

  The kellecks, each fastened to a length of rope with a long buoy at the other end, are stowed in the bilges aft and under the middle seat; the lines are run forward to the stack of buoys in the bow, to avoid tangling. The nets are passed down last and stacked astern.

  Out on dese cays, de Jamaicans growin ganja, y’know.

  Rascally-lookin people—dey no good, mon. See dat fella in dat skiff with de spiky hair? He one dem Niyamen.

  Mean-lookin guys. Smokes ganja out dere. Dey smokin weed. Some of dem very nice, but a few of dem gets hostile and want to do anything. Dey just walk in and want to take things from you just to get involved. And if you say nay for an instant, den dey grudgeful. And you’re out dere, and you’re unprotected so far away, and dey do as dey like. Dey nasty guys to deal with.

  Raib stands up straight.

  Dem ones I seen on Bobel Cay ain’t people any more—dey animals. And Desmond Eden right dere with’m—dass where he belong.

  Dey ain’t no nice Jamaica fellas, huh?

  Oh, dey some nice Jamaicans, Speedy, but you got some dat comes to Caymans, come in dere teared pants and twisted shoes, and after dey finds a job dey can put on a wrist watch and a pretty shirt, and den dey think dere is no guy in de world like dem. No good, mon. Cause Caymans people, we always got something to eat, something nice to wear, so we don’t have to worry, and dey don’t like dat cause dey poor over dere. Oh, dey poor, mon. Dass why dey spreadin out like rats, to displace and all over.

  When the oars and masts are passed down to the pilots and stacked on top of the fishing gear, the men come back aboard. Wodie serves large white tin plates of rice and johnnycake, with coffee, and a platter of salt barracuda on the side.

  Let’s hustle, now! We got to set net right after we eat! Buddy? Dat food ready? Den give his plate to Copm Andrew!

  He won’t eat, Papa! Just takes a little water!

  Dat his business! But you got to give de mon de choice!

  The men stop talking. Buddy carries a tin plate from the galley and extends it to the motionless old man. In the noon sun, as the chair rolls, the shadow of the foremast boom crosses the freckled hands, which make no move. Buddy sets the plate on the shrunken lap.

  Mon, I hopes we pick up one dem hox-bill; my gut cryin for fresh meat.

  Maybe we get a chicken green: green turtle something good.


  Hox-bill bad for my asthma. (laughs) Gets my courage up so I can’t sleep. Dere was dis fella went to de doctor, he say, Doc, can you give me something to get my courage up? I havin trouble lately gettin my courage up.

  Courage! (laughs) Dat pretty good, boy, dat pretty good!

  Joke ain’t finish, Copm Raib!

  Ain’t finish? Well finish it up, den!

  Old Doc give him cascarilla tonic from over dere in de Bahamas, something like dat, I reckon.

  What hoppen to de joke?

  Well, someway I forgot de way it finish. I got to laughin over de courage part and forgot de joke part. I was in a bar, y’know, over dere at de Blue Horizon, and time I got done laughin dis fella dat were tellin me de joke had turn aside and were talkin to somebody else.

  Buddy loiters at the rails, seeking his father’s eye; Raib is watching the old man, and the untouched plate on his lap.

  Papa?

  His father regards him briefly without answering, then turns to Will.

  You begin on de south side of de white hole dere, and work back up into de north. Don’t bring none dem net back here; you just set’m all along dat reef out dere!

  Papa?

  And reef dem sails! Can’t corry sail like dat out dere, not dis afternoon, darlin!

  Mon, dat wind really cuttin now!

  Can I go in de boat, Papa?

  You think you can pull dat oar out dere? (shakes his head) Boy, I know you try, but tryin ain’t de same as doin. You keep de fire burnin in de stove and see to de wants of Copm Andrew—dat be your portion.

  Will leads Athens and Vemon into the port boat; Raib, Byrum and Speedy jump into the starboard boat. Brown squats upon his fuel drum, toes curled over the rim, and Wodie climbs to the galley roof.