Speedy? Dass him, Speedy! De mon in de blue boat!
Blue boat?
Yah, mon! De child in de mornin sea!
What de motter with you, Wodie?
Dey drove dat nail into my footprint—now I done.
With an old machete, Speedy chips the crest of a big conch: a hollow metallic tonk. Then the crown cracks off, and he slices the muscle and drags the animal out of its shell, rolling the body off the warm pink inner spiral. Flecks of pink shell and livid entrail glisten in the sun on his black hands. He pares away the mollusk guts, horns, radula and spleen; with a length of pipe, he pounds the meat to break the fibers, then tosses it into a bent pot of citrus juice to cut away the slime.
See dis, Wodie? I boil dis just a little bit, den more juice, den black pepper. Plenty black pepper, mon—learn dat from school days.
Wodie rocks a little, saying nothing.
Conch salad, mon; good for de nerves. I give you some of dis, you gone feel better.
Will relieves Buddy, Byrum relieves Will, Wodie relieves Byrum.
Noon.
Start dis voyage with one man too many. Now we one too few.
Afternoon. Speedy relieves Wodie. The crumpled cigarette pack blows aft along the scuppers, and Raib grabs at it and misses.
Goddom thing! I never can come up with it!
Raib chases the orange packet to the stern, where he gets down on hands and knees to extricate it from beneath a turtle.
Domn Athens gone a fortnight, and he still litterin de ship, dat de kind of slob he is!
Wind clouds. Hastening birds.
A shadow in the eastern distance, under a sunken sky, like a memory in the ocean emptiness.
Land o’er! See dere? EAST-SOU’EAST!
EAST-SOU’EAST!
The cay is stranded among reefs, broken white to windward.
Oh, mon! Look at dem blowers!
Well, we gone to get more weather here. See de uneasy way dem birds is flyin? To and fro, low to the water, like dey huntin something?
Now you de one soundin like Wodie, Copm Raib!
Dat ain’t duppy talk! Dat is common knowledge!
The Eden is several miles to leeward when the first terns come shrieking to her masts; the swarms of nesting birds circle the cay as if it might withdraw beneath the sea.
I never see birds as thick as dat! Dey look like smoke!
Dat cause we scarin dem.
Raib, yelling, runs toward the mast.
Ain’t us dat scarin dem! No mon! Ain’t us! You, Speedy! Port!
PORT!
Steady!
STEAD-DAY!
The island has formed in the corner of a reef, built up slowly over decades from a drift of storm sand and detritus: an eddy, a shoal of coral sand, tide pools, sea wrack, a floating mangrove radicel, hot humus of sargassum and red algae.
On the high ground at its northern end stands a small wood of sea grape, logwood, jennifer trees. On the open sand a thatch shelter is visible and a fire burns nearby. The flame and smoke are transparent in the sunlight, but the rising heat blurs the patterns of the bird multitudes above. The shadow of wings dapples the island, and the bird voice dims the sea sound on the windward shore.
Dis a pretty place, Copm Raib!
It were! Dey foulin dis one, too!
We let go de hook, den?
I disgusted! I tellin you, I disgusted! I so disgusted I would sail dis evenin except de reefs so bad in dis domned place dat I needs high sun to see dat channel!
The Captain climbs down slowly from the mast. His face is terrible.
We stuck here till de mornin.
The Eden anchors a quarter-mile offshore, under the lee. Raib moves past the silent men into the deckhouse.
Dey got two skiffs dere, Copm Raib.
Think I ain’t seen dem? Get out de way.
A narrow long black skiff, powered by outboard, leaves the island. It veers toward the Eden, coming fast, and circles the schooner at full speed, bow slamming down hard on the chop, old motor roaring. The eight figures in the skiff, all of them standing, yell and gesticulate. Over motor and wind, no message comes, only harsh desolate human cries and the single word “Cay-mahn!” howled in derision. The skiff’s circle tightens; the eight figures sway. The skiff carries big baskets full of tern eggs.
Dat de same gang we seen up dere toward Bobel. See dat black skiff?
Yah, mon. And dey more of dem on de beach. Dey never come way out here in dem small boats, not in dis weather. Were Desmond brought’m.
Got’m reapin de bird eggs while he out scourin de cays for more. Den he take de whole swarm over dere to de land of opportunity.
If dey lucky. Might land dem on de coast of Cuba, tell dem it Florida. Save fuel dat way.
Dey be lucky if he come back for dem at all.
Hope dey don’t know dat yet.
Yah, mon. Got any idea like dat, den we in trouble.
Slowly the men eat their rice and beans, all except Raib, who is still in the deckhouse. Brown takes his plate and climbs onto his fuel drum. Squatting there, he stares at the circling skiff, his food uneaten. He grins a little.
The men speak in near whispers.
I tellin you, dese pan-heads gone to condemn dese banks for turtle. Mon go high-seain now, can’t crawl his turtle at Bobel cause de sons of bitches all around. Got to leave de crawl minded, or dey corry de turtle away.
Corry de mon away, too. I give dis fella ten pound ten to take up de street in Kingston Town, and dere was a gang dat grob de fella ahead of him and took his money, so he turn back. I don’t want to see dat place again, not in dis life, mon. I was up dere one time, layin over, and by Christ you could not leave a porthole open. Oh, dey mean bastards, I tellin you. Dey kill you on de docks dere and not think a thing about it.
Dere heads is filled with nothin—goddom pan-heads.
See dat spiky hair? Calls dereselves dreadlocks. Niyamen. Dey livin in de garbage of de towns, and dey smokin weed.
Dass it. Ganja. When dey on dat, dey gets hostile—hear dem yellin? Don’t like white people, no mon!
The skiff disappears under the stern.
Got to feel sorry for dem all de same, for dey been kept down too much. I been in a lot of dem big towns—Bragman’s, Bluefields—and I been to Port-of-Spain, (shakes head) Oo, mon! (whistles) Rats lives better den de people livin at de outskirts of de town! Dey got no song dere and dey got no hope. De onliest thing dey got and dat is anger—oh, dey got plenty dat.
Yah, mon. See dem fellas? Prob’ly dey West Kingston boys, or Sponnish Town.
A brutal bang against the hull, on the port side, amidships, brings Raib out of the deckhouse; he comes forward to the galley. The crew of the Eden, standing now, mouths full, not chewing, are ranged opposite the eight Jamaicans, who have swarmed aboard.
The eight are big wild mongrel blacks, near-naked in remnant shorts and dirty singlets, with wild hair twisted into spikes and eyes burnt red by rum and sun. Wet muscles twitch in thick dark skins that are scaly with salt spray. One wears a beard and big dark glasses and a mean street hat with tight brim, cocked forward.
The eight sway softly with the slow roll of the ship.
Who tell dem come aboard of here?
Nobody tell dem.
Nobody tell dem to clear off, neither. Cause dey might say no.
Raib steps forward.
You fellas clear off now, till we eats our supper.
The eggers are nudging one another. They have recognized Raib from Bobel Cay, and wear bad grins.
Without looking at it, Raib takes the plate that Speedy hands to him in warning; when he puts food into his mouth, his men sit again and resume eating—all but Speedy, who leans against the galley side.
The man with the dark glasses jerks his chin toward Raib and speaks.
Tuttle mahn! H-ss-t! See Desmun any place?
No!
Desmun s’pose to come. We waitin.
You be domn lucky if he ever come at all!
r /> A silence.
The eggers look at one another.
Dat so, Cap?
Easing forward across the deck, the Jamaicans form a half-circle around the turtlers; they mutter and scowl at Wodie’s blind eye, and his shard of mirror. The turtlers stare at nothing and eat carefully.
—goozoo!
S-ss-t! Unca John-John! Gib us rice!
Bes gib us boo-nus rice, boy, cause we starbin.
Still squatting on his fuel drum, Brown utters a small aimless laugh; he tips his sombrero back onto his neck and begins to eat.
S-ss-t! Tuttle boy! Doan like Jamaica fella? S-ss-t!
Ras! Dey boog, mahn!
The eggers rail at the Eden’s crew; their jabber grows chaotic, with wild laughter. They nag at the turtlers for cigarettes and food, cursing shrilly when the crew ignores them.
Forks click thinly on tin plates.
The man with the black glasses feints toward Will, as if to take his food. Will is cutting turtle gristle and his knife turns upward, though he keeps the knife hand on his thigh. The jabber quickens; the angrier the eggers get, the more they laugh. They dart their hands at other plates, hooting in glee as the knives rise.
Brown disappears below.
The man with dark glasses scowls at Speedy.
What say, Short Boy?
Speedy chews.
The eggers go ranging through the ship. Taking their plates as an excuse to carry knives, the crew move aft to guard the deckhouse. Raib stands with one hand on the helm. His squint is cold and tight and mean; the eggers circle him. Hooting and jabbering, they pick around the bunks and duffels; one finds a pack of cigarettes and points a finger at himself in mock entreaty. Raib shakes his head, and the man drops the cigarettes with a sharp screech of frustration.
One has found the stove wood hatchet, another has the conch machete: he tests the old blade with his thumb as the jabber grows more strident. The man with dark glasses leans toward Raib and shouts angrily at his face; he leans still further, to touch Raib’s chest, and then thinks better of it. Between yells, they chatter rapidly among themselves.
H-ss-t! Buddy? Get into de deckhouse and stay dere.
Papa?
When his father shoves him, Buddy drops his book. It falls open on the deck; the pages tatter.
Brown reappears and squats under the taffrail: he picks his toes.
S-ss-t, you, Sponnish! What say, boy? S-ss-t!
Gone gib us cigarette? We hungry, mahn!
His shipmates look at Brown, who shrugs his shoulders, gold-toothed, grinning; still squatted on his heels, he hunkers sideways to see better. He pulls out the shreds of his torn pockets, and laughs when the eggers hoot. They turn to Speedy.
Short Boy! You Caymahn tuttle boy? Doan look like dem!
Dey boog, mon! Ras clot!
Short Boy! S-ss-t! What you tink bout dis mecky bo-att?
Why you go wit dese kanakee tuttle boy on dis ol fuckin bo-att?
S-ss-t! Hey! (snaps fingers) Sponnish!
Both sides turn toward Brown, who squats there grinning; he looks proud of the big knife that he has drawn from inside his shirt. He winks at Speedy, giggling. The eggers fall silent. When Brown rises, they back away.
Dat Copm Andrew’s knife! Were him dat took it!
Give dat knife here! Goddom thief!
Brown spins toward Raib, lip curled, incredulous.
Ladrón?
The eggers gaze at the big knife. The scales of salt spray are drying on their skin, which has turned a dirty gray.
Dese boog walla mahn doan like you, Sponnish, you go wit us! Got pussy, mahn! Got rum!
Yah, mahn! You, too, Short Boy! We all of de same color!
Let’s see dat knife! We gib it back!
What say, Short Boy!
Nemmine dem, Brownie. No, mon.
Brown points at Raib.
Call me mon-fool! Call me ladrón!
Best stay with Speedy, mon. We go home to Roatán.
S-st! Sponnish!
Sí! We go with dem, Speedy! Call me ladrón!
No, mon. I stayin. I signed de articles.
S-st! Gib us dat knife, Sponnish, till we see somet’ing!
I never sign!
You made de X. Dis is our ship—we stuck with it.
Raib moves toward Brown.
Go den, and good riddance! But I want dat knife!
Panting, Brown whirls, then swoops and rises, knife tip trembling; at his feet, a red line wells on the white throat of a turtle. The turtle blinks.
Brown confronts Raib with the bloody point.
Speedy and Will grab the Captain from behind. The man with the black glasses extends his hand to Brown, who puts the knife in it. The eggers sigh.
In the scuppers, the old conch of Andrew Avers rocks with a small thump as the ship rolls. A tatter of dried turtle grass, blown aft, hangs for a second on the taffrail, then whips into the sea.
The man with Brown’s knife enters the deckhouse and takes the cigarettes from Byrum’s suitcase. He strikes a match.
Goddom it, dem my cigarette!
Dem my cigarette! We jus smokin dem for you, muthafuck (inhaling) Booo-nus, boo-noo-noo!
Oh, mahn! Hungry! All we eat is bird eggs, dis lahst fortnight! Bird eggs and rum!
Raib speaks in a guttural thick burst:
Wharf rat bastards! You are nothin but beggars and thieves!
Pity, pity, Cap. Poor starbin niggers!
Cap gone be cocksure as dat, I break he bumbo!
The eggers loot the suitcases and duffels; they fill a sack with coffee, cigarettes, rice, flour, beans.
Gone gib us tuttle, Cap?
T’row dem down longside de bo-att!
Two turtle are dragged to the port rail and heaved overboard in quick succession; because their flippers are still tied, they sink slowly out of sight.
Ras! Dey sunk!
You lost two tuttle, Cap! Ain’t got no fish?
Dem muthafucka sunk! Why dey don’t float?
Shit, mahn, t’row two down into de bo-att!
Dey break de bo-att, mahn!
Ain’t you bo-att, black mahn—t’row dem!
A third turtle is lifted to the rail and toppled into the boat, cracking the bow seat. A fourth is dropped; its weight splits the shell of the third turtle, and it caroms into a basket, crushing tern eggs.
We gone take dis salt meat, dat okay, Cap?
Oh, dat okay by Cap—tell by de face! Same mecky face he show us at Bobel!
We take dis hatchet and machete, okay, Cap? We bring dem back!
Grob dat rice pot on de stove!
Les go, den! T’ank you, Cap!
We be back, Cap!
See dem egg dere, Cap? Dem for de poor starbin niggers of Jamaica. But bein you so kind to us, we gib you one, two for you breakfahst!
The man wings two eggs at Raib’s head; the eggs splatter on the cabin side. Raib turns toward Brown, and Speedy steps between them.
Go den, Brownie.
Brown follows the eggers down into their boat. They make a place for him, indifferent. A bottle is hurled at the men along the rail; as the rest dodge, Speedy blocks, fumbles, and retrieves it.
Short Boy! Oh, you good nigger, mahn!
Started while in gear, the skiff leaps forward, and one man falls over the side. The boat circles at full speed, and the man grabs the gunwale as it runs him down; howling, he is dragged aboard. The skiff veers in toward the cay, striking the sand hard at the north point.
Wodie retrieves Buddy’s book; he pats the wind-torn pages. Byrum, at the rail, opens the bottle.
Never even stop to get his gear; just go.
Got no gear, mon—he went de way he come aboard.
The crew crouch at the galley, watching the fire on the shore. Overhead, black rain squalls hang as the earth turns east beneath them. On the hull and cabin sides, the tern eggs are congealing. The turtle with the slashed throat blinks a last time, opening its mouth, and the mouth stays wide.
>
Will and Buddy butcher the slashed turtle.
Byrum, in his turquoise shirt, brings another bottle from the cabin.
Smuggled dis rum aboard at Bragman’s—’member dat big sack of fruit?
For a time the crewmen drink in silence, avoiding one another’s eyes. Shrieks come from shore.
Speedy sets his cup down on the deck.
If dey been here a fortnight, den dey gettin short of water.
Dat fuckin Desmond overdue. Dey desperate.
Dass it. We ain’t seen de last of dem, no mon.
In a wind gust, the ship veers, and in the scuppers the old conch shell rocks.
Wodie speaks, in singsong.
Last night I dreamin dat de sun rose up out of de west, and dat we livin on de wrong side of de night. I dreamed dat we was dead and did not know it.
Just a gang of duppies settin by de stove, dass us.
Byrum drains his cup and comes up gasping.
Know something, Wodie? You a fuckin Jonah.
Easy, mon. He only wanderin. Wanderin and wonderin.
Will lobs the head of the dead turtle over the side.
I dreamin, too. I dreamin dat I were all alone in dat port catboat, and no land anywhere. And I hearin de drowned of de Majestic callin out dere names—what do dat mean, Wodie?