Far Tortuga Read Free Page A

he
smart
. (
laughs
) Had to go all de way to Honduras to find a fella meets dat description in
dese
goddom days.
    I seen’m on de quai. Tell me nemmine, he hondle dat oil drum by hisself. Little fella like dat—he
strong
!
    Dass right. When dat boy say he do something, he
do
it.
    Beneath the stern, a face bursts from the water. The face contemplates Byrum and the Captain, then disappears again, the black rump rolling on the emerald surface.
NAME OF VESSEL :
LILLIAS EDEN
BRITISH REGISTRY :
129459
BUILDER :
N. Elroy Arch, Georgetown, Grand Cayman
RIGGED :
Schooner
STEM :
Spoon
STERN :
V
BUILD :
Carvel
NO. BULKHEADS :
3
FRAMEWORK AND DESCRIPTION OF VESSEL :
Wood Commercial
LENGTH :
59.6 (from fore part of stem to the aft side of the head of the stern post)
BREADTH :
18.1
SHIP’S ARTICLES :
LILLIAS EDEN
Off. No. 129459; Gross 76.84; Net 69.89
    SHIP’S MANIFEST

The sun is high now, and the day is hot.
    Will is seated on the taffrail, working on a cotter pin with a big rat-tail file. Byrum adjusts the scuttlebutt, a diesel drum laid over on its side; water is dippered through a hole hatchet-hacked in its rusty surface. He lashes the drum to the foot of the mainmast, then turns to help Athens and the boy Buddy, who are stowing salt, sugar, corn meal, flour, beans, coffee, rice in the forward hatch. As the burlap sacks tumble together, motes of dust rise in the sun shaft of the hold.
     … trouble down dere, dat right, Copm?
    Dass what I tell’m, Copm Raib: me and Copm Raib, we ain’t
never
—
    Get out de way, Vemon! Just cause you went one voyage with me to Honduras don’t mean you
know
something!
    Under his striped cap, Vemon’s small features are still neat, but he is gaunt, with spindle shanks and the hunch of an old man. His eyes are meat-colored and do not hold, and his teeth are rotted out of his tattered skull. Mouth a black hole, he backs off with a big circular step, bones jerking; regaining his balance, he salutes.
     … come out of it all right, dat what dey sayin.
    I ain’t owin
dem
nothin, Byrum!
    No, no, Copm, course not, only just watch out you don’t go dere again or dey shoot you in de back, bein dey so angry with you.
    I ain’t
never
goin back! In dat country—Sponnish Honduras and den Nicaragua I talkin about—dey don’t care about life!
    Me and de Coptin—
    Goddom it, Vemon, if you sober enough to talk, you sober enough to work! Now dese two
guardias
, dere was a fight, and one
guardia
tell de woman of de other one dat he gone slit her throat. So de other one decide he gone ambush dis fella next mornin, by de dock. Right across from where dis vessel were hauled out. So dis mon were called in to get his breakfast, and he shot’m. Once in de shoulder, knock him down into de water, and den he poke his head around under de dock and shoot’m three more time, and de last one get’m in de neck!
    I guess
dat
scuttled him, okay.
    Well, dat be one hell of a breakfast! (
laughs
) Dat show you what kind of fella dey have in de lands of de Sponnish, where dey call you in to get your breakfast and den shoot you! I mean to say, dat one hell of a breakfast! Call you in dere …
    Slowly, Raib stops speaking. His smile dies, his eyes tighten to a squint, and a low growl starting in his throat forms gradually into words: God
domn
!
    A man has emerged from the engine hatch; he glances at the crew, then turns away, as if their work did not concern him. He has the feral air of a
bandito
, with sideburns, mustachio, bold gold teeth, hide sombrero with rawhide chin strap and rim stitching. He is in rags—torn, oil-soaked T-shirt, torn striped-pajama pants patchedwith heavier materials than itself, and pointed shoes without laces or socks. One sallow hip protrudes from the torn pants seat, and a brown cigarillo, rolled by hand, sits extinguished in his mouth.
    Dass him! Dass de one! Call hisself Brown, but he one of dem goddom Sponnish! Dat bent shaft, dat were nothin but faulty installation of de port engine by