As Flies to Whatless Boys Page 23

  And a moment later, like I’m hearing it from outside my body, from outside my own panting, exploding breast—like if it’s the fluttering bats theyself I’m hearing now—I hear my own fifteen-year-old voice. Repeating over and over. Shouting out into the rage of fluttering wings—

  White Church! Missterr Whiite Churrch! Miiissssterrrwhiiitechurrrrrch!

  14

  Captain Taylor’s Schooner

  Papee had selected and marked off with a chalky rockstone two gri-gri trunks during our excursion of the previous afternoon—I hadn’t even seen him do it—suitable to replace the schooner’s snapped-off masts. These two trunks, with John’s aid, we set weself to felling the following morning. It didn’t take us no time a-tall. The second trunk booming down with the startling catastrophe of knocking from out her perch a female red howler monkey. Unseen by us high above the canopy-crown. We watched her drop from out the sky. Clutching her baby tight against her breast for the entire unending duration of that treacherous fall. But with her final brutal bounding against the hard forest floor, the baby was flung forcibly out her arms. Smack against the side of a cedar trunk. Some five-or-six-feet from where she lay.

  I dropped my hatchet in the same breath, running to take the baby monkey up. Reaching its long woolly arms round my neck—the warmth of its tiny handprint lingering on my cheek a moment as I bent to lay the baby down beside its mother. Now I stepped away, the baby scrambling of its own accord back inside its mother’s arms. Taking hold of her once more round her waist. But the mother didn’t stir. A-tall. She simply lay there, unmoving, perfectly still with her wide sad eyes unblinking, dull-looking, staring up at us.

  We thought her dead.

  Then we watched with stifled breaths and beating chests as the mother rolled over in the leaves and started-way. Dragging her ill-twisted, severely damaged leg behind her. Comforting her startled baby by suckling it up gentle against her tit—like a human infant—whilst struggling at the same time to drag her crumpled-up leg behind her. Amongst all those deading leaves & creepers & snaggling doux-doux vines. Away from such violent intruders as we personified to the full. Off to the quiet safety of the deeper forest.*

  ___________________

  *During the early settling of Trinidad and parts of South America a strain of ‘jungle’ yellow fever, carried by red howler monkeys, was transmitted to Haemagogus mosquitoes that lived only in the upper canopy of the rainforest. The virus, found to have an incubation time as short as seventy-two hours, was passed to humans when the tall trees were cut down.

  ___________________

  Son, it pained our hearts to watch it happen. To such extent we couldn’t even speak to express our hurt. We didn’t say nothing a-tall till long after we’d toted those gri-gri trunks out the jungle, past the compound to the schooner’s side. Sized & cut & cleaned & shaved them both smooth as the twin cheeks of you own backside. Woodcurls floating down like giant snowflakes to mingle amongst we bare toes in the sand. Both mast-poles stripped of every manner of bark & branches & protruding knots top-to-bottom.

  We set them aside to weather a few days. Before we’d raise them up and slot them in.

  All this accomplished to Papee’s satisfaction—and it still being early morning—he stood on the beach a minute, studying the lie of the wrecked schooner in the sand. Sussing out our next move. John and me resting in the shade nearby.

  I watched Papee dragging from out he trousers’ pocket a shining goldwatch. Like if it’s the most natural gesture in the world for him to be doing this. Like if he’s been doing it he whole bloody life. The watch attached to its long goldchain like a sleeping mappapee coiled up in the depths of his pocket.

  Papee snapped the cover open. Turning the watchface up cool-cool to examine it. Goldchain dangling down like a fuse ignited by the bristling sun.

  A second later I was on my feet. Grabbing hold of Papee’s shirt-neck in both hands. Tight as vicegrips between the clutches of my trembling fists—

  Bastard! I shout into his face, spittle flying. Bloody thief! You’re the one who stole Mr. Whitechurch’s watch!

  Papee remained calm. Unconfuffled. Looking slightly down at me according to the slope of the sand. His head back-tilted, lips assuming the shape of a mocking smile. And let me tell you he smile only enraged me further.

  Out my eye-corner I saw him slide the watch and mappapee-chain back inside his pocket. He waited a minute before answering, my fists still clenching his twisted-up collar. Trembling against the sides of Papee’s bullmoose neck—

  Son, he says, calm, quiet. I’ll have you know Mr. Whitechurch willed his watch to me. And I intend to keep it a good long time in his memory.

  Papee paused a second, waiting for me to swallow-down this—

  That’s what he informed Mr. Carr, he says, still looking over his chin at me. And almost with his dying breath, according to Mr. Carr, he gave explicit instructions that I was to keep his pocketwatch until one day, I should pass it on to you, Willy.

  Papee’s smile broadened now—

  And one day, son, I trust that you shall treasure it just the same!

  I let my fists loose from his collar. Stumbling a step backwards, down the slope of the beach. Then another step. Wiping my wet hands down the front of my suddenly sweated-up shirt.

  We remained like that a full minute. Standing there, staring at each other.

  I felt a drop sliding down the back of my neck, down over three ridges of my protruding spinebones. A sandfly buzzed beside my ear. Settling & falling silent & sliding its tiny dagger into my skin at the top of my jawbone. Just below my ear. Stinging like it’s on fire. Yet I refused to swat it away.

  Finally Papee broke the silence—

  Now, he says, marking down the final full stop and the end of the sentence, end-of-discussion. I was just about to inform you n’ John that our next task shall be digging the schooner out her hole. And propping her up in a bamboo cradle. Because we need access to the entire hull, you understand—including the keel, where I suspect she’s woefully rotted-out ’neath her venerable copperplates.

  I was still angry. Still vex. No doubt I was still emotional over the female howler and her baby. No doubt I missed my own mum and sisters at that moment—no doubt I missed Marguerite more than I could say. Aside from the fact that I was already growing exasperated with this schooner. With Papee’s sudden obsession to make her seaworthy in but a single breath.

  I turned my eyes from him—

  Sir, I say, looking down at my ankles above the sand—at my mosquito-bitten, blistered-over, whitee-pokee-penny-a-pound ankles—

  Won’t you be needing more slaves than John and me to accomplish that?

  A vile statement. I regretted it the instant it took shape inside my mouth. Especially with John standing there, just beside. The words sticking to my tongue like the juggers of a pommerack fruit.

  After a few seconds Papee turned his eyes back the schooner, still smiling his mocking smile—

  A sound strategy, he says, that’s all we’re wanting!

  He turned round to face me again—

  We shall have to think one up together. Directly following lunch.

  ___________________

  It took us three days to dig the schooner out of the sand. Prop her up in her bamboo cradle. Only Papee never doubted a moment that we could do it, only he believed from the start. Mr. Carr & Esteban & Orinoko assisting us some, but hardly a-tall. Mostly they dedicated theyself to replanting the washed-out gardens. Understand, repairing this schooner was Papee’s project. He own personal endeavour. Papee didn’t want too many people fussing-up round him, tripping under his feet, getting in his way. Only John and me.

  The schooner lay half-buried on her starboard side, ten paces into the crabgrass and tall sea grapes. Lying there with her prow pointing down the slope of the beach, aiming straight at the sea—as though, on the day of her ultimate calamity, she’d drifted up onto shore stern-first. According to Papee she’d been lying there a goo
d five-six years at least. We dug right the way round her rotted-out, worm-eaten hull. Deeper on the starboard side towards which her tilt was directed. Propping her up with bamboo poles as we proceeded. But son, we didn’t just toss the dug-out sand aside. Not so easy a-tall. Because Papee insisted we pile it up in a mound before the schooner’s prow—just in front of her—like we were purposely building up a tall barricade between this schooner we intended to refloat and the very sea upon which we intended to refloat her. Which didn’t make no kinda sense to me a-tall, nor John neither.

  We did it regardless. Following Papee’s lead. Shoveling the sand into a buggy and wheeling it over to where he indicated. And let me tell you it wasn’t no kinda breezing effort a-tall, wheeling this buggy filled with sand cross the beach. We did it regardless, following Papee’s instructions. Taking the task in turns: shoveling & wheeling & busting a break between.

  When he’d returned to Port-Spain Captain Maynard had left his tackle-blocks and winch with us. And these we made good use of to drag the schooner body-and-soul up from out her hole. Securing the winchlines to nothing less than the crated-up Satellite itself—lying there tumbled onto its side atop the stone jetty—fifty yards distant. Our perfect anchor-hold. Only practical purpose that Satellite would ever serve: dead weight. Tying off the other end of the winchline direct to the schooner’s prow, still sound enough to carry the load of the vessel dragging behind. Despite that prow’s state of dilapidated, dripping rust.

  Slow but sure—in a series of minuscule, creaking, jerking movements—we winched the schooner up from out her hole. Inch-by-inch-by-inch. Careful at the same time to work her up level as we proceeded. Winching her out her hole and purposely up on top the mound of loose sand, the same mound we’d just finished piling up before her. But son, now we were dragging her down the slope of the beach, gravity aiding us, much as it appeared we were hoisting her straight up into the air. All of this thought out and calculated careful by Papee. And next thing we knew—before we could even take in how it happened—we had that schooner standing atop the mound of loose sand, as if atop the crest of a giant wave. Not only that, but dead-level.

  Third thing we did was dig out all the loose sand from beneath her bow again. From all round her rotted-out, delicately exposed hull. But this time the loose sand dug-out considerably easier and swifter. And in the midst of all of this careful re-excavation, Papee orchestrated the construction of the cradle beneath her. Bamboos knotted together with lianas—each pole angled strategic & braced & cross-buttressed—all the while minding to keep her balanced and on the level.

  Three days. Three of the longest, most strenuous days I care to remember. But when we were done, and there the ancient bark stood before us in her elaborate cradle—appearing twice her previous size and almost rejuvenated already—we couldn’t hardly recall how Papee’d directed us to do it.

  ___________________

  Next morning he revealed to us a small satchel he’d brought with him from Port-Spain—we hadn’t seen it up till now—containing a handful of tools: a pair of augers, jigsaw, hammer, several scrapers. To which Mr. Carr contributed the hatchets and a couple more hammers. But son, it wasn’t the schooner we set weself to working on first. Not as yet. Because that morning, satchel of tools in hand, Papee led us first to the Satellite’s crate. Sitting there atop the stone jetty, our winchlines still knotted in a web round it. Mr. Frank had built that crate from the finest-grade cedar—sturdy, solid, rot- and insect-proof—only reason it had lasted this long.

  Papee looked back at John and me, standing there on the jetty, hands shading our brows against the glare—

  Perfect wood for shipbuilding, he says. Or shiprepairing, as the case may be.

  Papee knew exactly how to disassemble that crate—he’d assisted Mr. Frank in building it. Not a single nail had been used. Not a one. And within a few minutes Papee pounded out a dozen dowels from the lid—now its side. The heavy lid dropping down with a loud brum to the rock floor.

  John and me saw that Mr. Frank had lined the inside of the lid with several layers of canvas. Designed to protect the Satellite from rain seeping in through the top—since, of course, he could never’ve suspected the real danger lay in seawater invading the crate through its bottom. That canvas still in perfect condition. The only thing inside the crate left undamaged by the saltwater. Only thing worth salvaging—aside from the pulleys and ropes of the Connective Apparatus, which Papee intended to make good use of too.

  He folded the canvas into three packets—

  We’ve got ourselves a mains’il here, he says. Perhaps a jib as well.

  Papee busied heself disassembling the lid. Knocking out the dowels and taking it apart board-by-board. John and me toting them over beside the schooner and piling them up. Next Papee disassembled the crate’s three exposed sides. Then the bottom. All those boards toted over and piled up beside the schooner. The only part of that crate he left intact was its single side—now below—with the indecipherable mangle of metal sitting on top, rusted to a brilliant orange.

  It was now dusk, and John and I had built a neat pile of boards four-feet tall. We were exhausted—not so much by our efforts of disassembling the crate, as by the accumulation of four days’ work without a break. So much so that the following morning—the morning of our thirteenth day at Chaguabarriga—we made the strategic error of sleeping late. Till almost midday. Even Papee. Not a one of us stirring from out our slumbers till we smelt the smoke.

  ___________________

  It took those pioneers three tedious hours—rowing theyself in Mr. Carr’s overloaded dinghy—to traverse the two-mile stretch from the Prescott Estate. Most of that distance, however, they didn’t even row. Since they found it all but impossible to make any headway against the current. They let the dinghy drift ashore, several of them jumping out. Attempting to shove the skiff as best they could up the coast.

  But most of this shoreline wasn’t sandy beach, or even rock—it was irregular mangroves. And most highly irregular mangroves at that. A vast profusion of snarls & snags & ragged indentations, beneath the arching roots only pestilential muck. The same muck they stumbled and sludged they way through. So by the time those pioneers arrived at Chaguabarriga, three long hours later, not only were they exhausted-out, but the entire boatload of them—men, women, and children—were soppsing head-to-foot. Coated high as they waists in the thick, nasty, stenching chagua-muck.

  Immediately upon landing they washed theyself off with a quick seabath. Just as they were—boots, hats, and all. Then, so as to warm and dry theyself, they built a bonfire there on the beach before the schooner. A big bonfire. Utilising as fuel—as you have no doubt already guessed—the most convenient wood to come to hand. Son, half the pile had already gone up in smoke by the time Papee & John & me smelt it. Making our sleepy way down to the beach. Only to find those pioneers sitting in they defeated-looking semicircle before the fire—bright orange flames rising up tall as the topmost-tip of that schooner standing behind them. Because let me tell you this was one hell of a bonfire those pioneers built with Papee’s boards.

  Mr. Carr detecting the smoke from the gardens, arriving at the beach a moment behind us.

  Now a row broke out between Mr. Craddock—the leader in all this—and Papee. As you can well imagine. But not over his pilfered pile of timbers. Throwing me into the same confusion as everybody else: they quarrel was over the decrepit schooner sheself.

  Understand, Mr. Craddock claimed that the schooner belonged to him. He own personal property and private abode. Despite that for the previous five days he’d resided at the Prescott Estate—

  So what right, he shouts, does this Tucker son-o’-a-bitch have laying a bloody finger on her for any reason a-tall!

  Papee stood there confused. Enraged. Not saying a word. He simply stood there, staring at Mr. Craddock, his fists clenching and unclenching over and over—like if the air’s made from dough he’s kneading up to bake bread.

  At that point Mr.
Craddock stepped forward. Not towards Papee, but sideways, towards the blazing fire. Reaching down and dragging out the longest board, end of it in flames. He raised it up slow, threatening Papee. But before he could swing his flaming timber at him, Mr. Craddock turned round, raising it up still higher. Swinging not at Papee, but the nearest bamboo brace of the schooner’s cradle—BRAPS!

  Nothing happened. Nothing a-tall.

  He swung his board again—BRAPS! Again—BRAPS! And with his third violent swing—trail of the timber’s fiery arch ablaze in all our eyes—he knocked the brace loose.

  The entire bark wobbled. Like a drunken humpback whale. Then she began to sway side-to-side. Slow. Bamboos supporting her portside beginning to give-way. Not snapping—bending back-and-forth—with they twisting, slithering kinda motion. Like live snakes. Like if these blasted bamboos suddenly had a mind of they own. Slithering and squirming theyself loose from the grips of those lianas holding them bound.

  The schooner stood before us a last second. Now she steadied sheself—appearing to rise up still higher into the air—and she pitched forward. Like she’s pelting down off the top of a tall seawave. Her rust-dripping prow nosediving straight down into the sand—BROOM!

  We felt it in our footsoles, this jolt from the schooner’s nosedive. The entire beach rebounding beneath us in a single reverberating shock.

  Then stillness. Silence. Nobody moved a muscle.

  A few seconds after this our eyes began to shift again—from the now stationary, almost comical-looking nosedived schooner, back to Mr. Craddock. Still standing there holding his timber, the end smouldering-out. Issuing forth little puffs of black smoke.

  Once again we took in the soft hissings-and-poppings of that bonfire still flaming up in our midst. Beginning to die down too.