The old man didn't like to be interrupted, and he didn't like to answer questions.
Early on, while cleaning the shack, Bambridge had found a pretty flower-print dress folded in the comer. Without thinking, he had held it up and said, "Captain? Do you have a daughter?" The old man had given him a surly look and said, "Man's got time fer questions ain't got enough work to do. Maybe you need to get back at that cane."
Bambridge didn't ask any more questions after that, just listened.
Something else he didn't do anymore was go down and visit the two Chucks-not socially, anyway. Just to carry food, if the Captain made him. Or to dip them a bucket of water from the spring. Even then, Bambridge didn't take the trouble to offer them advice. Not after the way they'd acted those first few times when he'd tried to share what he'd heard from the old man. "I'll tell you what makes the Captain mad," he had told them. "The way you two stand around in the shade and he has to remind you the break's over, time to get back to cutting. He says grown men shouldn't have to be reminded-and I agree. Remember, the quicker you two get done, the quicker we all get to go home."
Just a little pep talk, that's all it was. But Chuck Fleet had stood to freeze him with a chilly look, and Charles Herbott had screamed and thrown a big whelk shell at him. "You fat son of a bitch, you used to cry like a baby when you had to work in the field! You big fat-assed son of a bitch! You ever hear of a thing called the Stockholm syndrome? You're no better than him now!"
Well, if that's the way they wanted to behave, he'd leave them alone. Calling him fat! When he wasn't. Not now. He had to tie his pants up with a rope after nearly a month on the island; had lost forty, maybe fifty pounds, and he felt great! And that business about the Stockholm syndrome-suggesting that he, Bambridge, had begun to sympathize with his kidnapper. That was almost laughable, but what could you expect from a cretin like Herbott? The Captain wasn't a kidnapper; he was just a lonely old man with turn-of-the-century principles. They were in the Captain's debt, and the old man's sense of fairness required that the debt be paid. What was wrong with that?
Herbott-environmentalist indeed! The man was a gutter-mouthed savage who belonged in a pit. Why, Herbott himself had proven it just a few days ago.
Bambridge had heard the old man calling him: "Fat 'un! Fat'un! Get yo-self down here-and bring a rope!"
And there, by the cane press, had stood Charles Herbott, as still as a feral dog, his eyes wild, his whole body trembling, threatening the old man with his machete.
But the Captain had his shotgun up, the two men facing one another. Later, Bambridge would remember an odd stink in the air, a strange, musky acidity that, forever after, he would associate with human rage.
In the silence, the Captain spoke softly. "This scattergun knows her work, boy. She's done it before. Now yew drop that'er knife. Let Fat'un tie your arms till you cool off."
Herbott had dropped the machete… but then threw himself on the ground, pounding his own face with his fists while he screamed and cursed. Over the noise, Chuck Fleet had yelled, "His brain's snapped, Captain! Couldn't you take him back to the mainland before he hurts himself-or one of us? I'll finish the damn cane by myself!"
But the old man wouldn't do that. He had to keep Herbott tied now, when he wasn't in the pit; it was the principle of the thing. And the old man was right. Bambridge had told him so later. "Captain, you give Short One an inch, he'll try to take a mile. I know his type."
On the morning the old man came in and told him, "I'll be takin' you three back to the mainland day after tomorrow," William Bambridge finished his sweeping, poured the Captain's coffee, then walked down to the pit to tell the two Chucks.
On the way back, he decided he'd stop at a tamarind tree he'd found. The pulp inside the tamarind's seedpods made a wonderfully sweet drink, and its red-striped flowers were delicious, perfect in a hearts-of-palm salad.
Get a really good meal into the old man, and maybe he'd tell a few more stories before they had to go. Use the pencil he'd found to make more notes on the grocery bags he used for paper.
Bambridge stopped at the screened opening of the pit and kicked the roof frame. "Hey, you two awake yet? The sun's almost up!"
Looking down into the gloom was like peering into a cave, and he could see the two dim figures getting slowly to their feet. "What the hell you want, lard ass? Go away!"
Herbott: not so wild now, but still crazy with meanness.
"I'm not talking to you. I'm talking to Chuck. And if you don't stop being so profane, I might not tell either one of you the news."
"What news is that, Bambridge?" At least Chuck Fleet could be civil.
"This news: We're going home."
"We're going-"
Bambridge repeated, "We're going home."
"What!"
"That's right. Just like he said he would. The Captain's taking us back to the mainland. He told me not ten minutes ago."
"Jesus Christ, you mean it! He's really-"
"If you get your work done! You finish up with the syrup, do a good job, he'll take us back day after tomorrow. But if you don't, no deal."
Bambridge just threw that in; knew you had to use leverage on men like this.
"I'll be damned… You really think he means it?"
"He means it. He has to deliver a load of syrup and stuff to a man who lives in Mango, and he's going to take us back with him. I told him he could tow our boats in later. He gave his word."
"His word, my ass!" Herbott mouthing off again. "Here or back on the mainland, it doesn't matter a bit! You tell that skinny old nigger it's too late!"
"Don't you call him that!"
"And I'll take care of you, too!"
"He's got a name! Use it!"
Bambridge had told them both the Captain's name. It was Henry Short.
FOURTEEN
Tuck told Joseph, "Looky how things is working out. You don't think God's dropped everything else to sign on for this drive? Got us free food, free beds, 'bout twenty secretaries, and my own command post. The marines messed up when they made me a private, Joe. That's what I'm telling you. I was naturally meant to be an admiral or a major. Something like that."
The two of them were leading the horses around, letting them graze on the green sod pastures of Palm Valley Ranch. They'd been there three days, and the horses and Millie had to eat something besides the bran muffins and apples the women kept sneaking them.
Driving range was what it was. Golf balls all over the place. Only Tuck called it the north pasture-he still wouldn't let go of the idea the place was a real ranch. A long, open field the maintenance crew didn't keep mowed, so there was grass for the horses, and a little bulldozed pond, too, only Tuck wouldn't let the horses drink there.
To Joseph, he had explained, "If you knew what I know about water, you wouldn't stick your pinkie in that mess. The way they squirt around their fertilizer and their bug dope. Nope, we pour them a jug of spring-water back at the command post, like always."
Meaning the red aluminum building shaped like a barn, where there was a phone so he could do interviews, and a little podium so he could stand and give speeches to the four or five journalists who'd hunted him down. Acting like he was talking to a big crowd, even if there was just one in the room.
When one of the journalists would ask, "You got a phone number, if I need to get back in touch with you, Mr. Gatrell?" Tuck would say, "Check with one of my secretaries. They know my schedule." Just so the women-Mrs. Butler or Jenny or Thelma or one of the others-would smile at him, feeling important.