Who takin me in dere? Get in de domn boat!
Will takes the tiller, Byrum is at the bow oars. Byrum wears his turquoise shirt. Jumping down, Raib grabs the tiller from Will, who moves amidships.
Lookit de mate dere! Let’s see can he row!
Row, mon? Will de island’s best!
The catboat moves across the swells toward the pier, lifting and settling in the troughs as the seas pass.
At the seaward end, the pier is high and gaunt, dripping with brine as the wave passes. Each wave raises the three ships that are tied to the pier, heaving them back; the old soft hawsers creak. All the ships are headed seaward, so that their bows may part the heavy waves.
The catboat ties up to the stern of a freighter that is taking on fruit and timber.
Byrum follows Raib to the dockmaster’s shack, halfway down the pier. Here, thin whores jeer at listless men who hang around a radio: the thin whistle and static of the radio nags at the rush of wind and sea. Byrum calls for Will to come, and the whores mimic his call: seated primly in the catboat, Will shrugs his shoulders, tries to grin, then stares away at the coast of Nicaragua.
It is near twilight when Raib and Byrum leave the Customs shed; the whores and idlers crowd forward, begging for work.
You fock me? I loaf you! Amor!
I sailor, Cap! I fishin boy! Go turkle boat!
The turtlers push through the throng and jump down to the catboat.
You know what dem Sponnish tellin me at Customs, Will? Dey gone to close de turtle banks to Cayman vessels! Close down dis fishery dat is de historical fishery of de Cayman Islands! Yah, mon! Next year!
Close down de turtle banks!?
See dat, Will? Even de whores is pregnant!
… gone to charge me a fat fee for comin here, I tell you dat! Outside de port fees, I got to pay de medical officer and den de health officer, and after dat de Customs officer and den maybe de Army officer, none of which has done anything into dis motter! Dey a bunch of thieves, just like Honduras! And top of dat, we got to lay over till de mornin to get de documents back, so dat we lost another day on top of de days dat were lost at Cape Gracias. Don’t appear to be too much justice into dat!
Will? Customs askin us, How many life jackets you got aboard of dere? (laughs) And Copm say, he say, Two! Answer sharp like dat, y’know, lookin angry at de question. Two, de Copm say, I think.
I think. Dass about it. I thinkin about gettin one, two dem jackets.
Best get enough for de whole crew or don’t get any.
Goddom, how I hate dese Sponnish! Hate dere women for de same reason. First time I ever get de clap was here in Bragman’s. (groans) See dem shack dere at de pier head? Back of dat sign where dey got de bar? Well, dass where I done it, right dere on top of de ground, dere by dat hut. I never forgot to dis day how dat woman stink. Domn! It were terrible! You would have to be a dead person to smell as bad as dat! So right away I knew I was in trouble. I ate so much sulfa tablets I got sulfidized, but it done no good. From here I went over to Trinidad, and from Trinidad I went over to Haiti, and I still got it. (furious) Dass what dey call a dose!
Speedy, Brown and Vemon are waiting at the rail. Speedy is wearing a striped suit and shiny shoes.
You ain’t goin ashore, Vemon, I told you dat already. A mon go adrift in de lands of de Sponnish, dat de last you ever see of’m.
Got to get to a doctor, Copm Raib. A mon dat sick, he got to see a doctor!
You sick, okay, but ain’t no doctor in dis world can help you. Dat take self-knowledge, which you ain’t got.
Raib and Will climb aboard the Eden; Speedy and Brown descend into the boat.
I miss me, oh I miss shit miss me
At your house last night …
How come you singin? Don’t look hoppy.
Es posible I sing por el publico, entiende?
Buddy comes to the rail with his hair water-slicked, in a flowered tourist shirt, clean pants and hard shoes, but makes no move toward the boat.
Buddy? Come with us? We dance, boy! Sing! We hang around de bar! Den we come back to de ship!
No, thank you, Speedy.
Buddy? What you all dressed up for if you ain’t goin ashore?
No, Papa. I don’t like dem goddom Sponnish.
How do you know? (contemptuous) How in de hell you know? You just heard me say dat! You never even been dere! And prob’ly dis be your last chance in life, cause dem goddom Sponnish closin down dis Cayman fishery in de next year!
Huh? Closin it down?
Yah, mon! Waited till I got dem goddom diesels, and den closed her down!
When Raib goes astern, into the deckhouse, Vemon slips down into the boat. At the bow oar, Byrum laughs.
Look de stowaway!
Come back up, Vemon!
Nemmine, Will, we watch him. He ain’t much but he our shipmate, dat right, Vemon?
Let’s go, mon! Let’s go!
Copm give de orders, Byrum—dat be de rule of de sea!
Just pretend like you never heard it—you be okay, Will.
I tellin you, he be vexed, mon! Copm Raib be fightin mad!
Let him fly up all he want—he ain’t gone to fire nobody. Not off dis vessel. Not on dis trip. Ain’t we one mon short already?
The boat moves off on the long swells. Vemon is crouched down in the bilges, so low in the boat that the crown of his striped cap barely shows over the gunwales.
Night.
The boat returns over big slow seas, parting reflections of the light from shore. The man sculling in the stern scampers forward over the seats at the last moment to keep the bow from banging the Eden’s hull.
A line is slung down without warning, stinging his face.
Where in de hell is Vemon?
Nemmine, Copm Raib.
Nemmine tellin me Nemmine! I say, Where de hell is Vemon? Who dat in de bilges?
Brown ain’t feelin very good. Told dem girls he sing a song for dem, and dey laugh at him cause of his teared clothes.
Sing a song of love, amor, and de fuckin bitches laugh! I take my knife, I cut dere fuckin t’roat!
Where Byrum? He drunk too?
He say he go find Vemon. He say tell you de two of dem be dere bright and early on de dock when you go get de documents.
I TAKE MY KNIFE, I CUT DERE FUCKIN T’ROAT!
The two haul Brown aboard.
Now who de fool took Vemon into de boat? Who done dat?
We did.
You lyin dere! It were Byrum!
You know so much, Doddy, why you askin, den?
Raib dumps Brown by the engine hatch.
Who paid de rum for dis one?
I paid. You never give him his money yet.
Dat a very good thing! See what he do with it?
Ain’t your business, Doddy. (pause) Keep people down too much, you got to have trouble. Modern time, mon.
A silence.
You drunk, too, I see.
No, mon. I tell you de same thing tomorrow
fuckin T’ROAT!
Wrenching free, Brown lunges for the ladder head, grasps it and swings out wide over the engine hatch; he loses his footing and falls, landing hard on the iron floor. With ragged breaths, still conscious, he lies there on his back, the sombrero a torn circle around his head. Swinging slowly with the ship’s motion, the light plays back and forth on his soiled face. His mustachio is drawn back, baring his teeth in a kind of snarl as he gasps for breath, and his wet, canine eyes look broken.
You okay dere, Brownie?
Brown spits and mutters, staring vacantly; the heads of Raib and Speedy roll across the stars.
Magdalena! Dem bitches! Cut dere fuckin t’roat!
What he tellin dere?
La Violencia. He talkin about old bandito days in de province of Magdalena.
Sí! Magdalena! Don’t b’lieve dat, old mon? Don’t b’lieve dat? Where my knife?
Raib straightens. Speedy is starting down the ladder.
Speedy? Do dat fel
la have a knife hid some place?
When he turn up in Roatán, he had one dem street knives with de spring in it, but he sold dat in French Harbour.
You see dat fella with a knife, you let me know.
Speedy sinks to his knees and lifts Brown’s head into his lap. Brown’s eyes fill with tears.
Brownie? How you feelin? You okay dere, Brownie?
I sing a song of love for dem. Amor.
Brown stares straight up at the rolling stars. The rawhide chin strap falls and rises on his stubbled throat.
I hurtin, Speedy. Oh, I hurtin.
Daybreak.
The swift fire of the rising sun strikes the dirty beach under the pier head, where thin hogs root at peels and rotten fruit. Above, whores nag at Byrum, who sits on the pier head beside a sprawling sack of oranges. He gnaws angrily at a whole orange, spitting skin and seeds into the sea.
Near the waterfront bar, on a hard barren ground, Vemon is swaying. He has lost his cap, and the trade winds shift the lank hair on his skull.
Raib faces Vemon at a little distance.
You comin, Vemon?
Just give de word, I grob him.
Vemon?
Can’t leave him with de Sponnish, mon. He die here.
Shut your mouth! Why you didn’t think of dat last evenin? Why dey fire you off de Adams for? Why? I try to be a gentleman dere and not ask a mon what is his own business, but by Jesus, now I wants to know!
Insubordernation. Know what dat is?
Boy, you learned me it good if I hadn’t knowed it! Domn drunken fool—you broke de stem dere on de catboat!
Byrum spits orange seeds at the Captain’s feet.
You best fire me, den, Raib.
You forgettin yourself, mon! (sucks his teeth) You de worst of all dese fellas, Byrum, cause you know better den what you doin. You de worst one.
Dat so? Now let’s grob him and let’s go.
Vemon retreats a little.
Forty year, Copm Raib! We been in friendship forty year, and never a wry word!
Byrum lurches to his feet.
Listen to dat bullshit! De way you got dis fool and Will kissin your ass, I tell you, it turn my stomach. And de boy. And Speedy. Four of dem …
Byrum’s voice dies as Raib turns.
Get de hell back down dat dock and get into dat boat.
Shouldering his big sack of fruit, Byrum attempts a salute, but the Captain has already turned back again to Vemon.
Vemon salutes.
Reportin for duty, Copm Raib!
Let’s go den, darlin, cause we sailin.
You never treats me with respect! A mon gots to have respect! Dass why I stayin, Copm Raib!
You a turtler or ain’t you? I ain’t goin to shanghai you.
I got papers, Copm Raib! You show me no respect for dat—dass why I stayin!
Raib contemplates him for so long that Vemon nervously salutes again. Then he extends his hand, which Vemon stares at.
Stay den, mon. You gettin de respect you wants: I respectin your decision. And I wish you all de luck of it.
Copm Raib? Copm Raib?
Walking away, lugging his documents, Raib limps a little in his shoes. On the long pier, he looks small. Ahead of him, Byrum lurches around to yell at Vemon; because he is drunk, the heavy fruit sack, swinging, makes him stagger.
Vemon! Come on, mon! De goddom guardias—
Vemon follows at a distance, placing his feet carefully; he has lost his shoes, and his feet are pale and soft under the dirt line at his ankles. The pale feet limp on the dead bottle caps. Uneasy, he glances behind him, then hobbles out onto the pier.
Byrum turns back a final time, as Raib passes him and goes down into the boat. Vemon has stopped, raising his hand to shield his eyes against the Caribbean sunrise at the pier end.
Vemon!
VEMON!
The Eden bound outward, west-northwest, into the wind.
At the pier end stands a figure in a flying shirt.
We ain’t goin back for him, den?
NO, MON!
Vemon Dilbert Evers! Mon! Dem papers he always talkin about ain’t de papers he need here. Dem guardias gone to pick’m up and he rot in jail.
Lucky if dey don’t shoot’m for a spy.
Lucky if dey do—you seen dem Sponnish jail? Better off dead.
DAT MUTTERIN DONT DO NO GOOD. YOU HADN’T TOOK HIM ASHORE, HE BE HERE NOW!
Copm Raib, I could had grobbed him dere! He wanted to come with us!
Don’t you tell me about Vemon! I corried dat fella all my life, and corryin never done him a bit of good; he just waitin on dat. So dis time I tellin him he got to take de responsibility: either he back up dat big mouth he got or back up his common knowledge of dis life. And de fool back up his mouth.
He never b’lieve you leave him dere!
Raib gazes somberly toward shore.
He b’lieve it now. Old Vemon b’lieve it now. (grunts) He were my neighbor in dis life—dey called him Vemon. God done a bad job when he give me something like dat man to be my neighbor.
The Witties and London Reef.
Still the wind blows, and turtle are few. In the next fortnight, the Eden takes twenty-three green turtle and four hawksbill. Slowly she beats eastward.
We come too late. Dey gone south to de Bogue.
Dis a bad trip, mon. A bad trip. Dis wind gettin me.
I not worry, mon. Never worry, dat is me. But I givin up de sea, work on de land. De sea always treat me pretty good, but now I gone to give her up, work on de land. Fifty-five acres, mon, all free and clear. And I don’t have to go lookin for my job. Oh, dey laugh like hell dey be so hoppy when I go back dere!
Speedy-mon? Try dese oranges? Something good!
Misteriosa! Dat way out dere, ain’t it? Queena way? (sighs) Oh, Queena got plenty fish, Copm Allie say, but dey very few turtle, and dey not very easy caught. Too much tides and currents around dere. It just layin out in de open sea. Very bad reef. It a great place for cotchin up wrecks.
Dass why de Sponnish calls it Quita Sueño—get no sleep dere.
If dis wind don’t moderate, den we ain’t gone to do much anywhere, cause de season has come up with us—we gettin into de May time. So our last chance is Misteriosa Reefs. Cause I got de theory dat green turtles makes dere nests at Far Tortuga, and dat would mean dat quite a few could be driftin out dat way already. Oh, yes! Dey good turtle spots out on dem reefs, boys, but you got to know’m—can’t set just any old white hole or pan shoal or channel. You got to know.
If dey egg birds dere, dey Jamaicans dere. Domn pan-heads all over de place.
No, mon. It hard to find and it hard to fish. It too far south for dem, and too far off de coast. Far off de shippin lanes, even when dis were de Sponnish Main—dass why dey called it Far Tortuga. So when dem old-time turtlers come across it once again, back dere in de last century, why, dey just kept dat secret for dereselves. (sighs) Dat island is a very nice place. A very nice place. And dere good shelter in de lee, cause it high enough so it got trees—grape trees and jennifer trees, and den logwood and mongrove: got a little water dere if you know how to dig for it. Plenty birds. I thinkin one day I might build a little shack out dere on Far Tortuga. Dass my dream.
Got no dream, mon. I got fifty-five acres, mon, and cows. I go along every day, do what I got to do, and den I lays down to my rest.
Feel bad about Vemon. He ain’t much, but he our shipmate.
Never do dat in de back time! Maroon a shipmate on de Sponnish coast! Might’s well leave him off in hell!
Mon come and go, I guess. Like Brown dere. Modern time, mon.
A blue catboat, rag sail luffing.
Dey only de one fella—I can see him!
Tackin to de eastward! Where in de hell he think he bound?
Maybe he sunstruck. Copm Raib? We speak him, den?
He can see us and he ain’t wavin. (winces) Ain’t nothin de motter with dat fella, he just crazy.
S’posin he too
sick to wave.
Well, speak him, den! Dass all we need aboard of here! Another crazy mon!
The Captain points at Wodie, who stands with both hands on the rail, staring at the small boat as the Eden comes astern of her. At the tiller is a black man, near-naked. When the Eden rolls up alongside, the stranger looks away to the east horizon.
You okay? Need water?
Got a compass? You very far from land!
A line looped out to the boat falls across the thwarts, within reach of the man’s hand. The man turns slowly, watching the line drag overboard as the Eden passes.
Shit, mon! Grob de line!
Slowly the man in the boat raises his hand; he waves, and his mouth opens. Wodie screeches.
Shut up, Wodie! What dat fella sayin, Will?
He tellin us goodbye! I heard him good: goodbye!
No, mon! He not so crazy as all dat! Come up on him again!
Will recoils the line as the Eden circles, rolling heavily in the blue chop; she comes abreast of the small boat a second time. Again the mate loops the line across the boat, and again the voyager ignores it. When its end slides off into the sea, the man raises his gaze to the faces at the Eden’s rail, regarding them one by one. His face is clear and his eyes bright. Again his mouth forms just one word—
Goodbye!
The Eden’s men do not answer, nor do they speak or look at one another. All stand silent but for Wodie, who has retreated to the galley roof. Eyes shut, he lies there on his side, arms wrapped around his knees. Speedy goes and lays his hand on Wodie’s foot, and Wodie moans.