Far Tortuga Read Free

Got hisself another bottle!
    What dat you said, Byrum?
    I say I s’prise de old bastard sign you on again, Vemon, must be he desperate! Goddom Raib dere, he do better with dis vessel runnin
tourists
den sailing away down to de Cays. (
shouts
) LAST OF DE CAYMAN SCHOONERS! HOPPY SAILS AROUND DE ISLAND! SEE COPM RAIB AVERS AT WEST BAY! But he such a domn stubborn mule, ain’t nothin you can tell him—
    Vemon sits up, spilling rum.
    You watch your mouth! Copm Raib hear you talkin into dat manner, he gone change your speech!
    It
your
mouth need de watchin, Vemon. All de rum runnin out. (
quietly
) Dey only de one way de Coptin gone to hear something, and dass when you tell him. And you just de mon to do a job like dat—
    Easy, mon. He only drunk—
    He hidin behind dat. Dis Vemon is a pretty one, y’know—
    I knowed Copm Raib gone forty year, and never a wry word!
    You gone get a wry word, Vemon, you don’t hide dat rum! Dis ain’t no kind of Jamaica boat, mon, ever’body drunk aboard and all of dat! Dis a
turtle
schooner, mon!
    You tellin
me
dat, dat help build dat vessel thirty year ago, right dere in de yard of Elroy Arch! Me ’n Elroy ’n Seth ’n Fossie, and Jim Arch!
    I didn’t think you ever be sober enough to ’member so much as dat, Vemon. You quite a fella, Vemon.
    You think you somebody cause you went crew on de
A.M. Adams
! But I got
papers
! You can go right up dere to United States and ask if Vemon Dilbert Evers got he seaman’s papers, able-bodied seaman! Ask Copm Gene on de
Tropic Breeze
! Goddom sonofabitch! I tellin you—
    A silence as Byrum rests his oar; the catboat is gliding up under the hull. Byrum places a big hand on Vemon’s shoulder.
    No,
I
tellin
you
: shut dat dirty mouth or you goin over de side!
    Mon, mon. We ain’t even put to sea yet.
    BRING DAT BOAT ABOARD OF HERE! DAT DE LAST BOAT!
    C’mon, Buddy! Throw de line down, boy, we comin up!
    Byrum and Speedy bend a rope sling to the fuel drum, which is hoisted aboard: the pulley is rigged to the end of the foremast boom, and lines of a second pulley are reeved through blocks high on the foremast.
    On the blue morning sky above, a heavy-headed man lays big hands on the rails.
    Come up, den, Vemon! Dese fellas ain’t paid to h’ist you!
    Dass okay, Copm Raib—we got’m.
    Copm Raib? I comin, Copm Raib! You a hard mon, Copm Raib!
    Goddom it to hell, if he too drunk to get hisself aboard of here, den hook dat hook into his pants and hike him up ass foremost, cause dat de way dat fool proceedin through dis life!
    Byrum whistles for the sling, pointing at Vemon, who has folded his arms across his chest.
    What say, Byrum!
    What say, Will! Give us a hand with dis turtler here!
    The men on deck grasp Vemon and haul him aboard; he puts his feet down gingerly on deck, brushing himself off. Now Byrum’s head appears over the rail.
    Dis de right boat? Don’t look like de
Eden
to
me
!
    How you been keepin, Byrum?
    Not bad, Will. How yourself?
    Dere he is! Big Byrum! What say, mon!
    What say, Athens! I pleased to meet you again! How you been feelin?
    Well, I
feelin
, dass about it.
    Byrum, whistling, takes his suitcase aft into the deckhouse.

    The Captain passes a propeller down to Speedy, who is stowing oars under the catboat thwarts.
    You fit dis propeller to de shaft while Will filin de pin!
    Okay, Doddy!
    Raib Avers is a broad strong man in his middle fifties. His iron hair is patched with white, his bare feet are thick and brown, and his bold nose, in a leather face both wide and lean, has the cast of a full-blood Indian. Lines of merriment seam his face, but his eyes, discolored by sea weather, have a mean squint.
    Byrum, hitching at his pants, appears on deck. He has put away his turquoise shirt and now wears khaki. With the Captain, he watches Speedy pull the catboat aft along the hull and tie it to the rudder shaft under the stern.
    See dat black fella, Byrum? I gone make a first-class turtler out dat fella, cause he willin. And