As to when the original map, or chart, from which all the others (except this newest one) had copied… or been copied from copies of copies. as to when that one had been made, or made by whom: Limekiller had no idea. Captain Cook, maybe.
He had a good enough wind to take him out. Port Caroline was soon enough merely a white blur with red spots marking its roofs. He passed Bamboo Creek and The Nose and Warree Bight; past Warree Bight he had to put in closer to shore to avoid coral-heads. The beach was the highway down around here, with paths — not visible from his distance — leading back to the numerous “plantations” in the bush. Anyone expecting anything resembling anything from Gone with the Wind — white columns and all that — in the way of a plantation, well. Hereabouts the word retained its simple and original meaning: it was a place where things were planted.
In other words, a farm.
Almost without exception the farms were small, from an acre to three. None of them would have ever been plowed. It was the hut and hoe culture, as it had obtained among the American Indians, as it had obtained among the West Africans. Moving down the coast by wind and current, Limekiller could see the ever-present procession along the beach: mostly women in bright dresses, walking stately and proud: a stance which may have had something to do with social personality, but which certainly had much to do with their carrying almost everything balanced upon their heads. Babies, no: babies were carried on the hip. Everything else went by head: bundles of yams, sticks of firewood, a basket of fruit — even an axe.
All this was as expected, what was not as expected was the incoming mist. Mists were not unknown but mists were not common. The last one Jack had seen had been, exactly, on the Night before Christmas. It was not night now and it was nowhere near Christmas. Be all of which as it may, love laughs at locksmiths and the weather often laughs at the weatherman, and there was a mist on the waters and coming towards him from the south; that is, just then, against both the wind and the current — of course, there could be a different wind and current down there. however far awav “down there” was… in which case he wanted to know about it. Being a one-man crew, he had no log to toss astern for reckoning his speed, he did that by guess and by God.
So, now, he turned his face shorewards to get a better guess as to how fast he might be going: the shore was bare of a single human figure. Where, a moment ago — surely, only a moment ago? — there had been twenty to forty figures strolling on the strand, now his eyes saw not a single one. Not one, not even one. It was as though they had been been swallowed up by the sand. Which was of course impossible. It was of course possible that they had all been bound for one destination, some local equivalent, perhaps, of a barnraising or a husking-bee. maybe one of the jollifications locally called “funs”. and had all turned up one and the same path. Possible.
If so, however, he had been day-dreaming and had lost track of time. He returned his attentions to the mist.
And the mists parted, in part, and he saw the man in the longboat.
The man in the longboat was bent over, Limekiller could not see his face, only the arch of his back under his white shirt. He might have been searching for something at the bottom, or doing something else — somehow, his position suggested strain — could the man be sick? According to ancient and local maritime custom, Limekiller ought to have had a conch-shell next to his free hand, ought, also, to have had a distinctive conch-call all his own. ought to have known what call to sound upon this oldest of sea- horns to signify, Are you in trouble? — or, simply, Get the Hell out of my way! As, however, he had no conch and the whole custom was almost in complete abeyance, he merely shouted, “Longboat ahoy!”
It worked. The man looked up. The two vessels were getting closer now. He could see now that the man was not wearing a white shirt. The man was not wearing any shirt at all, the man’s face and throat were reddened, tanned, by sun and wind, but his body was the white of a White man who does not usually go shirtless. The man in the longboat started to raise one hand — the other seemed, although Limekiller could not be sure, seemed to be pressed to his side — they were not close enough for Jack to be sure of that, or sure of another notion he had, that the man had no clothes on at all — Hell, yes! — the fellow was sick! — Sick or injured. what a look of pain and agony upon that face!
“Hold on, hold on! I’ll throw you a line! I’ll
He was not sure what else he was about to offer. He saw the man raise his other hand, streaming with blood — The mists closed in as though a curtain had been pulled across. Jack swung the tiller sharply. Surely to God he would not want to run down a boat with a wounded man in her! The man might not be able to swim, and even though one wras always being assured that sharks w^ere seldom to be seen in close to shore around here, still. He did not run the boat down. He did not see anything of it. He called into the mist for the fellow-' to give him a hail so he could put about for him — There was no answer. The mists showed nothing, then the mist was all around him, and, oh, God! What piercing cold!
It could onlv have been a matter of seconds. He had sailed through the mists. He was shivering, shivering, trembling, under the hot sun. Never mind any of that, had to find that fellow, find his boat. He put his helm around.
There was no mist.
There was no boat.
Curasow Cove was deep. It was not the Mindanao Deep, to be sure. It was deep enough for the Saccharissa to come right up to shore. In fact, Limekiller was able to moor her to a palm tree. He w^as in several ways grateful for this; for one thing, he had not relished the notion that he might have to do Robinson Crusoe stunts and float elements of the cargo ashore. The timber, for example. To say nothing of many, many trips of the skiff for to fetch the nonfloatable items: nails, paint, corrugated iron, and such. Fortunately, Curasow Cove was deep enough so that he didn’t even get his feet wet, unloading. It was so deep, Limekiller mused, bethinking himself not to trip with the anchor-chain round either ankle, it was deep enough for Full Fathom Five’s father to be lying there, now, his bones turned to coral and his eyes to pearls.
The curve made in the shore by the water was paralleled, a bit back, by another curve made in the bush by absence of bush. Either a difference in the soil, or some recent “cleaning” of the land, or what. like the tonsure of a Celtic monk, the ground curved gently back against the trees. not far away. never far away, trees, in those latitudes… a sort of lawn, covered with heartshaped green leaves containing, measure for measure inside, a red- heart-shaped design. These were locally called Bleeding Heart, and they looked mighty dignified and worthy of a bishop to wait him with.
There was deep water, so. A bit back in the bush was a stream, so: it trickled into the Bav — not much of a stream, but betokening a spring. The King Town Municipal Water Service did not after all extend its pipelines dowm this far; neither did the distilled-water man and his garrafones interest the Nationals. So the bishop was in luck in a few several ways. Limekiller got his back into his work and imagined the place as it would look, with standard coconut palms along the shore, just for fancy (as well as for nuts). a bit back, perhaps behind the bungalow, would be dwarf cocounts: more convenient for a man of retired years, who could scarcely be expected to shinny up a tree whenever he wanted some fruit.