Far Tortuga

by Peter Matthiessen

  De one cabin has a kind of blue wash, faded to de same blue as de sky, and de other one white as bone, and both of dem bare, bare, bare, settin dere on dem old ironwood posts, with old gray narrow doors. A lizard were stuck to dat whitewash like a spot, and he never moved a scale. Dere was no wind, no air, nothin were movin, and all de same dis big leaf fall from de sea grape, just dis one, and come tumblin across de yard, big dead brown leaf, dry as de wind, and dat were de last thing in de wide world dat moved, cause den it fetch up on a post. So I turn my head slow, and all de palmetto and de grape and so, every plant were white with limestone dust dat de wind corries out dere at East End, but in all my years of livin in dat place, I never see things so white as what dey were dat mornin. De sky were white and de sea were white and all de island, too.

  And quiet—dere were never a bird, although dis were just de time of dere mornin song. And out on de road dere was two dogs layin in de dust, white dogs laying in white dust, and dey lay like dey was dead, I seen black flies on dem, and across de road, in de Jennifer and cocoes, dere was a very old donkey tethered dere, look like he grew dere. Dat donkey were de same silver color as a old piece of beach wood. (sighs) Well, I tellin you now, it were early still, in de first hour after de sunrise, but de light off dat white sand were something terrible. I had to shade my eyes to see dat stranger in dat boat.

  And all dis time dat stranger never moved, and dat boat never drifted, no mon, not one foot, in de current and de wind. It were like de sun had stopped in its time of risin, and every livin thing had to stop and wait. De world was waitin. Den dat dead leaf jump free again, blowed down across de road, and I got my breath, and I turned my back on dem yeller eyes and I went down to de seashore. Oh, yes. I knew. I had felt de sign. I were right dere when he brought de body in. And you know something? I know every catboat on dat coast, and I never seen dat blue boat before. I never seen dat fella neither, never in my life. I never thought to ask his name, not den, and I never seen him after.

  Near twilight, the Eden rounds the southwest point of Miskito Cay and comes up into the lee. The island, roughly two miles square, is the largest on the banks, but except for an acre of high ground where water of poor quality may be obtained, it consists mostly of red mangrove. There is no harbor at Miskito Cay, but ships can come in close on the south shore; in hurricane, they are run aground and lashed to the small trees.

  There are two vessels in the anchorage. One is the rusty yacht called Davy Jones, the other a converted schooner like the Eden but much larger; she is trim in appearance, and her dark green paint is new. Turtles are being hoisted into the ship from two catboats that bob along her hull.

  Dere she is, mon! De Alice H. Adams, Speedy! She takin on her turtle now, gone sail directly to Key West!

  Silhouetted on the fading sky are two thatched, ragged Indian shacks on sagging platforms. To avoid the sandflies that infest the cays, these shacks on stilts are built well off the shore. Trailing downwind from each shack are the small dugout cayucas, which in the turtle season bring the Indians across the forty miles of open water from the Mosquitia Coast.

  The Eden moors inshore of the Adams and lowers her small cat-boat. Athens and Byrum go off to the Adams, and Byrum alone, trying to chew gum while he whistles, returns at nightfall for his supper.

  Hey, Byrum! How de Indians?

  Most of dem Wikas treats me nice. Don’t treat me anything but nice. Dey give me dis nice sack of conchs.

  Byrum drops a burlap sack onto the deck with a thick crunching sound.

  Supper, Byrum, when you ready. No rush at all with me.

  You back in de galley, Speedy?

  Vemon? You ready for rice porridge?

  Wait till I done! I still eatin dis hox-bill!

  A catboat comes across the water, carrying Athens and three men of the Adams crew.

  Cocinero!

  Hey dere, Byrum! Gone to let us up?

  Come up, come up! What say, Royal? Come up, mon!

  The crews greet each other shyly.

  Dis here Henry Bawden. From Old Providence.

  Come up, Henry! When you fellas sailin?

  Sail tomorrow, mon, if dat wind break with us.

  Hey dere, Copm Raib!

  Hey, mon! You talkin wind? We had a hell of a time! How many you get?

  We full. Four hundred fifty—close to dat.

  Hear dat, Speedy? De Adams got four hundred fifty, we got seventeen.

  If dis wind moderate, you do okay. Dis last week, we didn’t do much neither.

  Dis a bad trip, Royal. Very poor trip. Boat leaks bad; no equipment. He ain’t got de hang of dem motors—

  frames is mahogany and de plankin is cypress, inch-and a quarter plankin on dat port boat—she pretty solid. I believe she a pretty good catboat. But somehow she keep right on leakin.

  Will say she were launched dere without flowers—dat no good, mon.

  We should have left dat boat at Half Moon Cay, and picked up Will’s boat dat were left behind

  business is a lot into

  de picture

  rum, dat make a hard night of it.

  Dat homemade stuff? Calls dat white lightnin! More like black lightnin, by de color. Feel you quick

  mon dat is willin to take de same hard farins dat we do

  So Vemon tell me he got to have another half share for comin along, and I tell him, if he got to have dat, he best stay right on de dock

  leave de nets untended, mon, de log’reds bear dem away

  dat de only trip dat he got more turtle den what we got! De only one!

  speakin fair now, dat fella don’t deserve

  New York, y’know. Had papers and everything. You know any of dem shippin lines up dere could use a mon?

  So I went back to de seashore and kept watchin, and I seen dat de waves were runnin smaller, and I knew den dat de storm was goin from me, passin over to de westward

  de Wilson, de Goldfield, de Adams, and den dis vessel, dey have a spoon bow. De Hustler, de Majestic—all dose older vessels had a figurehead, a real old-fashioned figurehead bowsprit

  de Hustler had a one-piece bowsprit, no jib boom

  by Alice-Agnes Rock—big turtle, mon. We give dem hell dere.

  Hon say to me: Precious—

  I see four turtle into de one net. Dass right, four turtle. And de way you do, you cotch one of dem with de paddle and den de two men

  soft, mon. Soft and mallow

  midday I were takin latitudes, and just at noon de sun covered up, and she never

  come back out

  Jamaicans? Way out dere?

  Yah, mon! Desmond got a gang of pan-heads dere livin like animals, worse den animals, drinkin and fightin and all so forth. What dey done to Bobel Cay—worse den a hurricane, cause at least de hurricane is clean.

  says, I can lay down any minute dat I want and picture dose sets just as natural as if I had used dem yesterday

  use dat crawl to de east of you, we could crawl dese couple turtle we got here

  were my chance in life and den I lost it

  where we headed after Bragman’s, won’t find no pan-heads dere, mon! Far Tortuga!

  Mon, dat half-inch chain hold her till Christ come

  sailin home on de Adams. Don’t like de way dese turtle watchin me, no mon. I ain’t stayin aboard of here.

  Goldfield? Dey runned her ashore?

  Oh, mon: I remember de year de Goldfield sailed away, and now she gone!

  She mashed up, mon. In miscalculation dey wrecked her

  a heavy beam sea when I left dere, oh God she was blowin hard. Dat wind blow de hairs out of ye

  he dyin, mon. Won’t talk and he won’t eat and he won’t lay down. Just gone to sit like God on dat goddom throne dere till de wind dry him up, blow him away.

  Captain Andrew Avers.

  Copm Raib?

  The figure of Wodie breaks the moonlight in the deckhouse door. Byrum sits up with a grunt.

  Dat you, Wodie? What you wantin?

 
; Raib lies still, his mouth wide, looking stunned.

  Copm Raib? H-ss-t!

  Raib opens his eyes and shuts his mouth, as a frown gathers; he gazes at the deckhouse ceiling.

  It Copm Andrew! He gone!

  Raib rises slowly in his bunk.

  Dass what dey said de last time. You listen to his heart?

  No, mon! Never went near him!

  How you know, den?

  As he speaks, Raib drags his pants on.

  I see de fireball! In de hatchway overhead. So I poke my head out, and dat fireball dere by de mast!

  Fireball! Never heard about St. Elmo’s fire?

  Dey ain’t no storm, Copm, it full-moon light!

  Raib goes out onto the deck.

  I tellin you, Wodie, you got dis whole crew thinkin you some kind of Jonah. If I’d have known dat your head was filled with trash …

  Raib falls silent. Rounding the forepart of the deckhouse, he pauses by the hatch. In the moonlight the bony knees in their worn khaki emerge from the night shadows of the port companionway. The rat retreats.

  Ain’t got no white suit, but we got his pockets sewed.

  Oh Jesus! You see how dat rat chew his shin?

  In the yellow light the old man lies, knees up in rigor mortis. While Will presses on the shoulders, Raib tries to straighten out the legs, but every time the legs contract, and the high black shoes lift slowly from the deck.

  See dat? Dey ain’t no bendin de old fella, he just as cranky as he ever was—domn! Know what we gone do? Put him back on de throne dere and corry him across de water in dat manner. Eitherwise he be layin in de hole with his knees up in dis woman’s way—can’t have dat! Got to bury him chair and all!

  Daybreak.

  Light and sky.

  The catboats from the Eden cross the anchorage, and a third boat slides out from the silhouette of the A.M. Adams. Lashed across the thwarts of the first boat, the dead man’s chair rises and falls against the east horizon. The boats vanish in the shadow of the cay.

  Men of the Adams and the Eden stand on either side of a dark pit, dug east and west. Buddy and Will are on their knees, pushing thin soil back into the hole with shards of board. Captain Andrew, in his chair, lies in the hole, his hat haloed around his head, his hands still folded in his lap, shoes to the eastward. His eyes, half open, are fixed upon branches overhead that flail at the gray sky.

  An ant crosses his gray cheek.

  Where’s dat old conch shell dat he cherished? Did ye leave it aboard de vessel?

  Holding his hat against his chest, Raib coughs to repress a smile.

  Not … yet! he say. Dem were de last words of dis old fella!

  The branches creak.

  Copm Andrew Avers! (pause) Well, Copm Andrew went and he went and he went, and would not help hisself—wouldn’t hardly rise one hand. But in de end he went away very well. He were not able to give testimony, but he went in peace, and we very hopeful for his soul. Amen.

  Raib looks from one face to the other.

  Amen.

  Amen.

  Amen.

  Light scent of sweat and mangrove humus. Mosquito whine. Dried blood on a dark arm.

  A cough.

  At the sad demeanor of the men, Raib frowns, looks shy, tries not to laugh anew. He sees the catboat off the shore: through the twisting trees, an upright figure watches.

  Desmond! Come ashore, den!

  The figure stays the drifting boat by jamming an oar into the bottom on the downwind side. There is no answer.

  Raib scrapes earth into the hole and offers the board to Vemon.

  Dis were de finish of a wind coptin, and a very good sailor mon. Sailed down to dese reefs all de days of his life, and now he died here at Miskita Cay! (turns toward Desmond) HIS LAST VOYAGE WERE HIS FINISH; DASS WHAT CORRIED HIM! IN HIS OLD AGE HE HAD TOO MUCH AMBITION; HE DIDN’T THINK OF HIS HEALTH, ONLY HIS WILL TO GO, AND DERE WERE DEM STANDIN READY TO TAKE ADVANTAGE OF HIS OLD AGE! (more quietly) Copm Andrew were a born seaman, one of de best. He one of de best seamen were in de island, and an expert on sailmakin; he could take a vessel and rig her from one end to de next. Knowed everything about it, and he learned me all he knew. Andrew Avers were a very good sailor mon.

  A tear appears on Will’s dry face.

  Oh, yes! A very good sailor mon!

  Byrum and Speedy stack the turtles as they are lowered: the blue boat is nearly awash. A soft bump of old wood on wood as another catboat nudges alongside. Shifting a heavy turtle in the bilges, Byrum cocks his head: he sees tight kinks of hair on a section of pale heavy leg between black rubber boot and rusted swim shorts, and a stray testicle, and a red T-shirt.

  Mis-tuh Desmond!

  Yessuh! What say? (grunts) Couple turtle dere, I see.

  Mon, you lookin at turtle but not turtlers. De turtlers is over dere aboard de Adams.

  In the bow of Desmond’s boat, a near-naked black boy stands on one elegant foot, balancing himself with a long sculling pole. In the stern squats a pregnant black girl no older than fourteen. Her hands are folded in the lap of a sack frock, and her eyes are fixed on pink broken conchs and twisted beer cans in the oily bilge that washes her short ankles.

  Desmond belches, gazing up at the Eden’s deck.

  Where you headed, Byrum?

  Southern cays, I venture. De season very late. If de turtle gone, well, we work offshore—Misteriosa. Know dat place?

  Desmond yawns, gazing up at the Eden’s deck.

  Far Tortuga? Copm Andrew marked it careful on my chart. Long way out dere, mon. Bad reefs.

  Dat so? Well, we desperate.

  Plenty egg birds dere, dey say.

  Birds, mon! And trees! Ain’t one dese old mongrove banks, y’know! (whispers) He got de idea dat some green turtle goes out dere to nest.

  Dey plenty birds dere anyways, you know dat much.

  Talkin about birds? Oh, mon! De sky is littered!

  Desmond grins so suddenly that Byrum flinches.

  Been out dere, Byrum?

  No, mon! But I knows about it good!

  Using the oars as paddles, Speedy and Byrum stand upright in bow and stern, one foot on the gunwales, the other balanced on the still, bamboo-colored bellies of the turtles. Slowly they start out toward the turtle crawls.

  Raib comes to the rail, sees Desmond, steps back, is seen, stops. His face closes as Desmond grins at him; he squints toward the low sun.

  What say dere, Copm Raib?

  Not much. Not sayin much.

  Keepin quiet, huh? Ain’t like you, Copm Raib.

  So you say, den. (pause) Got a Wika dere, I see.

  No, mon. Dat Jamaica pussy, mon—cook on my boat now.

  Desmond puffs his belly out and scratches it.

  Yah, mon. Took her aboard to give her a rest (winks) from dem Jamaicans I got workin for me now—dey grindin her to death.

  Nice bunch of fellas. Dat one dat got knifed dere at Bobel—did dat one die? I s’pose dem was more of your pan-heads dat we seen south of de cay.

  Dem Niyamen? Dey very grudgeful cause you would not speak dem! (grins) Oh, dey lookin for you, mon!

  Where you got dem now? Dead Man Mahagans?

  Desmond Eden ignores the question. He contemplates Raib Avers.

  Never asked me to de burial?

  Never heard me holler, Come ashore—?

  No, mon. Too late den.

  Were not for you, dere would not have been a burial!

  Desmond tucks his testicle into his shorts.

  No, mon. Dat old mon were my doddy too, y’know.

  I never swallered dat one, Desmond.

  You de only one in Caymans, den—you gone to choke on it.

  Copm Andrew’s bush child! Desmond Eden!

  No, mon. Outside child. I were acknowledged when he give me de Clarinda.

  To see de ugly way you kept her! Call yourself Coptin—!

  Look better dat way den burned down for de insurance, ain’t dat so?

  Is dat de tale you
give to Copm Andrew? Dat why he would not talk?

  How you like your new engines, Copm Raib? (farts) Gone ask your baby brother to come up?

  Dat what you here for? (contemptuously) Come up, den.

  No thank you kindly, brother—I too busy.

  Athens comes forward, carrying a paper parcel; he hops down into Desmond’s boat.

  Goddom it, Athens, I never said you could go visitin dis mornin—!

  Ain’t goin visitin. I goin home. I sick, mon. I sick inside of my own self and I sick of de shit aboard of here.

  You wantin to lose your share of dis voyage? Cause you jumpin ship! I never signed you off!

  The boat moves away from the Eden’s hull.

  Well, dat ain’t much, on dis voyage, Copm Raib. But if you smart, you settle up with me when you come home.

  Raib lifts his stubbled chin toward Athens’ parcel.

  If dey anything missin aboard of here, we know who got it, dat right, Athens?

  You talk like dat, why, I might get to talkin too.

  Rain clouds, rain-colored water. The Eden’s catboat, near awash, is poled slowly by Byrum and Speedy. Drifting downwind from the crawls come the gasps of the penned turtles and the sad plaint of a gull.

  Speedy talks over his shoulder; his muscles jump beneath a bright white T-shirt.

  Now de Coptin say he took a floggin dere in de Bay Islands. He say dem people cheat him, so dat is why he left dat place still owin dem money on de vessel. But dem people was always good to me, very fine. Dey had dat drydock down dere in French Harbour a long time, and dis is de first thing of dis kind dat ever I heard against dem. Old Doddy dere, he say dey kep’m dere to make more money, but maybe dey work de best when dey work slow. Maybe dass de way things go de best down in Honduras.