By supper, the captain and the second mate were ashore. The bosun and the chief mate ate their meals pretty much in silence, and then Gebbert left the saloon, saying to me, "Ve'll see now."
I went up on deck as he hailed a boat to begin making the rounds of all the American ships in Carlisle Bay. There were two steamers, a bark, and two big schooners.
In the galley, I asked Eddie where they might be keeping Tee ashore, still having thoughts of trying to contact her, telling her to make no moves until we could work it out. "Probably in an inn," the Bravaman said. "I don't think they'd put her in Graystone."
I asked what Graystone was.
"Graystone Gaol, the old jail. It's a very bad place. I've stayed there under lock and key. So has the bosun; even the cap'n, a long time ago when he drank a lot."
"Hans is trying to help," I said.
Eddie laughed. "You see, I told you."
"He doesn't seem to like the police here."
Eddie laughed once more. "That's because of Graystone. One night he wiped out half of the Ice House—that's a famous saloon over there—when a British sailor called him an ugly swine. He must have decked twenty men before someone threw a table at him and knocked him off the second-floor balcony. After a week in jail, the bosun came back half starved and full of lice. So he doesn't like Graystone.
"I don't think the girl is there," Eddie added.
At soft twilight, tide incoming, all ships riding easy at anchor, I sat on the stern of the Conyers with Boo, looking at the lamp and lantern lights of Bridgetown, hearing voices and laughter and music. It was awful. My first foreign port. My first night in the tropics. I said to Boo, "Wouldn't you know we'd end up here instead of walking around Trafalgar Square and eating fish pie?" It seemed to me that we were both doomed until we got that girl safely back to London.
I sat out there a long time, just thinking, and, about nine o'clock, a skiff made the accommodation ladder and I ran back just in time to see the bosun climb up. I was close enough to get a good whiff of rum or whiskey, not that it mattered. So he had been tippling a bit after a long, hard voyage, seeing old friends. What was wrong with that?
He eyed me and said, "Vee did it. See dat four-mastered schooner out dere..."
I couldn't see anything except some yellow anchor lights, and that didn't matter, either.
The bosun said, "De Fräulein und de Hund sail in two days. She goes to Baltimore."
Spirits soaring, I asked, "How did you do it?"
He laughed and waved a hand as if it were nothing. "Vee did it," he repeated, and weaved on toward the afterhouse companionway.
I knew better than to press him. Details could wait for the morrow. And Baltimore was as good a place as any, providing Tee avoided the criminal element.
I returned to the stern again to watch and listen to Bridgetown. A singing voice floated out over the water:
"Darlin', your man's got to stay on shore
Those tall, white sails don't fly no more...
[Not so, I thought.]
"Small island, small island, you've gone back on your wish
Small island, tell the waves to come on shore
My ship is rottin' in the slip, go tell the flyin' fish
This sailor won't be out to sea no more..."
[Not me, I thought.]
My mind was very much on the girl. She was over there, lonely and worried, mourning Boo, probably in an inn, police guard outside the door. I couldn't think of anything worse.
Boo snored gently beside me in the velvet night, enjoying the cool breeze, as I thought on, even to the point that we O'Neals had surely been selected to pilot Teetoncey all the way home. Since the night she'd washed up into our hands, the Mother Sea had decreed that we would be responsible. Soon I decided it was nothing less than a holy mission to personally get that girl to London. That being the case, it was I, Ben O'Neal, who must escort her every ocean mile.
Therefore I was duty-bound to be on that schooner when it sailed.
The shore sounds began to ebb, and the lights began to fade away about ten o'clock. Then I saw the cap'n and second mate return, likely having had broiled flying fish topped with Creole sauce. Several other skiffs made the accommodation ladder shortly after that, bearing tipsy crew members. They were laughing and talking loudly, and I stayed in the shadows.
Finally I went on down to the pantry with Boo and turned in, knowing that dawn would begin an interesting day.
21
THE CREW TURNED-TO about six-thirty of that beautiful morning to open No. 2 hatch and begin off-loading the small amount of general cargo destined for Bridgetown. Lighters were already alongside to begin hauling the short distance back to the docks.
I began serving breakfast about seven o'clock, as usual, trying to stay in the pantry while the bosun talked to the captain about Tee, not wanting to interfere at this point. No sooner had the cap'n and the bosun finished their pancakes and a second cup of coffee than I was instructed to summon the Bravaman aft. The captain, now rightfully performing in his true role, had taken charge, and I ran up the deck to get Eddie Cartaxo.
The conference that then took place was of even more importance than the meeting we'd held with the railroaders in Mrs. Crowe's parlor, amid the ferns. There was no nonsense or fiddle-faddling about it.
Cap'n Reddy began by saying he'd never been involved in anything like this in his forty-six years at sea, but neither had the rest of us, no matter how long we'd sailed. Then he spoke directly to the Bravaman. "Eddie, you take Ben and go ashore to do your usual shopping [the buying of fresh vegetables and fruit for the galley], but find the girl first and take her out to the beach at Holetown. Hans will go there in the yawl and bring her back to the Ritter."
It was not until that moment that I knew the name of the schooner that would carry Tee on to Baltimore. I had not spoken but felt I must now. "Cap'n, please let me go with her. That girl needs someone to look out for her all the way."
Josiah Reddy regarded me for a moment, then nodded. "That was on my mind, too. If Eddie can find someone to replace you, I'll sign you off and you can sail with Cap'n Tobias." Then he added to the Bravaman, "Ask around at Da Costa's."
Eddie replied confidently, "We'll find someone."
I cannot describe the relief I felt, and said so gratefully, then took the five companionway rungs at almost one leap to go out on deck. About six hundred yards away, gray-hulled, with white railings, white deckhouses, white mastheads and trucks, Harriet B. Ritter swung at anchor in the calm water, taking on the last of her load of sugar. I'd noticed the trim four-master the previous day but little dreamt I'd ever set foot on her.
Two hours later, the Bravaman, with a tarpaulin folded beneath his arm, hailed a boat, and we went shoreward toward the jetty on sparkling-clear water. I had no idea what the tarp was for but looked back at the Conyers and saw the bosun, along with Nils, preparing to launch the yawl. The plan of action was under way.
Within a few minutes, we rounded the jetty and there was the bustling port of Bridgetown, and the Careenage, gem of the Caribbees, jammed with two-masted Indies schooners and dozens of little cargo barges. In the Careenage, several schooners were tilted over, their masts pulled toward rings on the quay, their bottoms almost out of the water. Men were caulking and painting.
Our boat bumped up against the dock not far from where a hand derrick was lowering bags of sugar into the lighters. Nearby, workmen were tightening hoops on barrels of molasses, freight for some ship. Wherever I looked, cargo was being hand-loaded into the interisland schooners, brought up by low-slung, two-wheeled donkey carts.
That morning was like most mornings in the Lesser Antilles, warm and soft, with wind rustling the palms and fleecy clouds racing overhead. There was a thick, sweet smell in the air, maybe from all the sugarcane and tropical plants.
The Harbour Police on the dock eyed us but said nothing, and I could only guess that Tee hadn't as yet escaped. If she had, they knew nothing about it. We went about
our business, which was to go to Da Costa's.
Looking about, I was almost speechless but asked Eddie, as we passed one loading schooner, the Jeannie Johnson, of Castries, "Where do you think that one will go?" Whatever cargo was down in her hold, on her deck were bags of fertilizer, sacks of cement, rolls of wire, kegs of nails, and some live pigs. Passengers sat on her rails to await departure.
"Oh, maybe Dominica; then back to her home, Saint Lucy. She'll return with firewood, grapefruit, mangoes, chickens. Anything. That's how everyone gets around down here."
I saw stone warehouses that must have dated back to George Washington's famous visit, in 1751. Lookout towers to spot incoming ships mounted up from several warehouses. Then I saw the bridges, seven of them, after which the town is named, connecting all the basins. In the air now was another smell: food cooking. Noisy hum was cut through by the cries of vendors.
"Fish hey. Fish hey."
"Dolphin. Dolphin."
"Nuseful limes. Nuseful limes."
Then one that stood over all: "Maubey cooo-ooool! Maubey cooo-oo-ool!"
We crossed Chamberlain Bridge, over the Careenage, and there was Trafalgar Square, with the tall Lord Nelson statue, just as Tee had said. Not ten paces off that bridge was a towering, bearded man wrapped in a silk sheet, with more silk wound around his head, sandals on his feet, beads hanging down from his neck, like no man I'd ever seen. I'm afraid I gawked.
"Hindu," Eddie said. "A few here. Some Moslems, too. Few Bengalese. Few Chinese. Quite a few Portuguese."
It was all more than two eyes could ever take in and one brain ever think about.
As we moved along Broad Street at the Bravaman's limp speed, there were vendors on every corner sitting by baskets of fruit or vegetables, calling to us. Eddie waved and smiled at them. One man had some white, spiny things laid out on canvas. "Sea eggs," said Eddie. "White urchins. Very good. The meat inside is orange-coral."
In a moment, I heard the cry of "Maubey cooo-oo-oool!" again and saw a woman with a keg on her head. In front of it was a tap. The keg looked too heavy to be sitting up there. Her skin was golden brown.
"Maubey seller," said Eddie. "Look at her neck. It could hold the bridge up. You'll like this drink. Made from the bark of the maubey tree."
We stopped and Eddie paid a penny each for two tin cups of it. The woman reached up easily, balancing the big keg on the top of her head; turned the tap, and the cool drink flowed down. She caught it without spilling a drop.
Moving on, the Bravaman said, "She was mixed-blood, Creole, but Bajan, too. All the Barbadians, except the whites, call themselves Bajans. Some are black as our galley coal. Some like the maubey woman. Some in between, like me."
"Why does she carry that keg on her head?" I asked.
Eddie laughed. "So she can keep her hands free. My Delfina, back in Brava, can go down the road with a bundle of wood on her head and still crochet; never miss a loop."
All this time, I scarcely thought of Tee, and one could hardly blame me. Here I was in Bridgetown, with wind bending the palm trees, and Bajans and Hindus, and foods of which I'd never heard; sights I'd never seen. Reuben hadn't told me the half of it.
At the corner of Broad and MacGregor, I saw the Ice House saloon, a three-story building with a balcony running around the second floor, the undoing of Bosun Gebbert. I did not see Graystone Gaol and had no desire to do so.
Then we turned into Da Costa's, and it reminded me, just a little bit, of Jordan's. Captains were sitting around drinking rum. A big board listed all the companies Da Costa handled: PACIFIC ARGENTINE BRAZIL; WEST AFRICAN LIGHTERAGE & TRANSPORT COMPANY, LIVERPOOL; SKIBS A/S HOSANGER, BERGEN, NORWAY. Many more.
"Captains come in here to get cargoes," said Eddie. "Or just to pass time while loading or unloading."
Then the Bravaman began spouting Portuguese to a clerk. They talked quite a while, and then Eddie turned to say, "He'll have someone for us by tonight."
That was good news. I could now sail on the Ritter.
After he borrowed a lantern, which we'd forgotten, there was another long rattle of Portuguese. Finally Eddie said, "Adeus," waved his hand good-bye, and we were off again.
"What was all that last talk about?" I asked.
"We talked about how nice it would be to have some came de porco à alentejana for dinner."
I frowned.
"Pork with clams. But I told him I had an important job to do." That was rescue Tee, of course, from Cole's Cave, trusting that she was there.
In a moment, Eddie hired a Bajan cart named Daily Bread and its driver, Arthur Cobes. Eddie used him each time the Conyers came to the Bar badoes. I hopped in back, where the Bravaman had thrown the tarpaulin, and we started off for Holetown.
Eddie talked in his j's that sounded like s's and g's and was answered back in a flow of warm Bajan syrup. Eddie asked how Mrs. Cobes was, and her husband answered, "Ah, we gettin' on in a certain way," which wasn't much of an answer. Then they fell to talking about mango crabs. A crab is a crab, whether in Barbadoes or up to Manteo. So the topic didn't hold much interest for me.
I looked at the countryside, seeing all the tropical vegetation. Carts loaded with sugarcane and yams passed us going in the opposite direction. The road was a little like our sand trails on the Banks, but the countryside wasn't. Sugar mills were everywhere.
Soon the Daily Bread cut ack toward the sea, and the beaches could be seen again, white and pink. The sand looked powdery, and I'd never had sky like this overhead. For some reason, it was a different shade of blue from the Hatteras sky; the clouds were different. They were lower and moved faster. The palm trees were flapping a music. The heat was moist.
Only once during that enjoyable ride did Eddie talk to me. He looked behind us and said, "No police are following." Mind a million miles away, I'd forgotten all about Collymore and his threats.
We turned sharp right in Holetown, which wasn't much of a place, and went east into the rolling lands of St. Thomas Parish. Everywhere along the road were pieces of sugarcane, dropped during the harvest season. Some was still being cut. The cream-colored donkey pulling us along now had his work cut out, as we were steadily going upward.
Mr. Cobes knew exactly where that Cole's Cave was, on the Spring Plantation. Caves do not exist on the Outer Banks, to my knowledge, probably due to the high sand content, and I was looking forward to seeing one, in addition to finding Tee. She certainly picked unusual places to hide.
In little more than an hour, we arrived at the brink of a steep ravine and Arthur Cobes said, "Down there."
We all got off and started descending into the ravine and finally reached the cave entrance. It was a shaft, which Mr. Cobes called a "sue," which did not register with me. I looked into the stony darkness and called out for Tee. An echo came back just like the ones on the stairwell of Hatteras Light. There was no answer.
The Bravaman lit the lantern and said, "We'll take a look."
I quickly discovered that I do not like caves. Although it was warm in there and we could hear water running, I was not attracted to the bats that were hanging to the high ceiling once we got into the main part. Nor did I like the looks of the dripping stone icicles that hung down, with others rising from the floor, appearing to try to kiss.
I kept calling for Tee, now believing that she hadn't made it. But in a moment there was an answer back, and we rounded another area and there she was, sitting on a bedsheet. She'd been asleep.
She hopped up and said, "I knew you'd come," and then said hello to the Bravaman and Mr. Cobes.
Right away, she asked about Boo, and I told her he was safe aboard the Conyers; they'd be united presently. Then I said, "Let's get out of here."
"It's really a good place to sleep, Ben. It's so warm, and you can hear the water running."
"Do you know there are bats in here?" I asked.
"Certainly I do. I've come here many times."
We went on out, and that was my first and last visit to a cave. I just do
not like them.
Climbing back up, we got into the cart and I discovered why Eddie had brought the tarpaulin along. He threw it over us, and we started downhill again for Holetown. As we bumped along the trail, Eddie and Cobes talking upon the seat, I asked Tee, "How long were you in that cave?"
"I got there about two o'clock this morning."
"Were you in jail or an inn?"
"No, I was in Collymore's home," she said. "He lives on Bathsheba Road, not far from Codrington College."
"How'd you get away?"
She laughed. "For a Solicitor-General, he isn't very smart. I talked to his housekeeper, and told her what they'd done to me, and why. Just after dark, she rode a donkey down to our former plantation in Christ Church and told Mr. Littlefield, our foreman, what had happened to me. They are both Bajan and very understanding people."
"Collymore's own housekeeper betrayed him?"
She nodded.
I think the lesson to be learned by Calderham and Collymore was that you did not pick on female orphans, rich or poor, nor their dogs.
"Then what happened?" I asked.
"Well, I put a note on my door for Collymore saying, 'I'm very tired, please do not disturb me,' then crawled out of the window about midnight, when everyone was asleep. Mr. Littlefield met me on Bathsheba Road on his horse and off we went. I'm sure Collymore was surprised this morning."
"I'm sure he was," I said, quickly recalling the notes she'd left Mrs. Crowe and myself on the dining table.
It was very hot under that piece of canvas and I was sweating all over. That part of the ride wasn't so nice, and Tee brought up another point. "You're not seeing much of Barbados, are you?"
No, I wasn't, actually, especially under that tarpaulin. I had wanted to see those Scotch Redleg slaves and the cannon on the beach at Speightstown; that regimental signal tower; but now I knew those sights would have to await another voyage. At that, I was faring better than Boo. Here he was in his first foreign port and hadn't been able to lift a single leg ashore.
The Odyssey of Ben O'Neal Page 10