Читать книгу The Drop Edge of Yonder - Rudolph Wurlitzer - Страница 17

The Rhinelander sailed south over turbulent seas, her hatches loaded with supplies for the California gold fields. Zebulon, confined to his cabin with seasickness, was only dimly aware when the wind suddenly shifted to the west at gale force, tearing the rudder loose with a raw screech and threatening to punch a hole in the transom. After the ship’s carpenter cut the steering lines the ship drifted for two days, finally ending up off the west coast of Florida.

When Zebulon finally appeared on the deck, the sea was a flat blue sheet without a ripple and the carpenter was fixing the rudder. Most of the passengers were grouped by the starboard rail, staring at a spit of land lined with tall undulating dunes shimmering beneath heat waves, their valleys dotted with mangrove and scrubby pine.

A voice spoke behind him: “A rotten ailment, mal de mer. Makes one loathe the sea. Much better for the world to be flat. Easier to sail off the edge and be done with it, wouldn’t you say?”

The Englishman from the hotel in Vera Cruz extended a limp hand. “Archibald Cox. I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced.”

Zebulon barely nodded, his attention fixed on Delilah, who was standing with the Count near the stern railing. She was wearing a white muslin dress that reached to her bare feet and a black scarf tied loosely over her hair.

“An odd duck, the Russian,” Cox went on. “Used to be a military attaché at the London embassy. A bit much the way he carries on with that Egyptian whore, or whoever she’s pretending to be these days.”

He pointed to the poop deck where a portly figure in a cocked hat and black high-necked uniform was looking down on the crew as they prepared to lower a lifeboat. “Perverse old bastard, our captain. Always insisting on exercise and philosophy. Now he’s ordering us ashore for a walk about.”

They joined the Count and Delilah in the lifeboat, along with the first mate, three sailors, and the rest of the passengers: two middle-aged German merchants specializing in picks and shovels, a Polish clothing merchant, a Finnish soldier wanted in three European countries for forgery and arms dealing, and finally, a New York journalist hired to write a series of articles about the gold rush. All of them were curious about Zebulon, who, they had learned from the Count, was not only a legendary mountain man, but a veteran army scout, Indian fighter, and explorer.

The Count was the first to wade ashore. Kneeling on the ground in the imperial manner of a conquistador, with Delilah holding an umbrella over his head, he intoned a solemn prayer.

He was interrupted by Zebulon, who had noticed three Indians standing on top of a dune, along with a towering Negro in cut-off sailor pants and a straw hat.

“We got company,” Zebulon said. “Look up slow and easy and keep your irons lowered.”

The Indians continued to stare down at them, their sallow faces pockmarked from typhus and parasites. All three, as well as the Negro, carried feathered lances and wore calico cotton shirts and beaded belts over their leggings and breechcloths.

When Zebulon raised a hand in greeting, they slowly walked down the dune. Using sign language, he asked where they came from. After one pointed to the north, he questioned them in Kiowa, then tried a few words in Arapahoe and Sioux, none of which they understood.

Finally Delilah stepped forward and addressed the Negro in an African tongue. When there was no response, she tried another dialect, then two more until the Negro suddenly laughed and clapped his hands, telling her along with dignified pauses that even though the Seminoles helped him escape from Portuguese slavers when their ship ran aground, they had treated him as if he belonged to an inferior race, refusing to recognize him as a man of wisdom, especially when it came to war and agriculture. When he first saw her from the top of the dune, he was immediately aware that she represented an ancient and royal lineage, and despite the fact that she was surrounded by obviously incompetent white men, he was sure that her journey, whatever its secret intentions, was not without courage and honor. He ended his speech by saying that he would be pleased to join her on the ship.

“He’s an African chief,” Delilah explained to the others. “Because the Seminoles are an ignorant people who don’t treat him with the respect that he deserves, he wants to return to the ship with us.”

“Absolutely not,” the Count said.

The crew and the rest of the passengers, who had all become increasingly anxious, insisted that the ship was fully booked and that the Captain would never accept another passenger, particularly a black man without means, unless, of course, he would agree to become a slave.

Delilah advised the Negro that unfortunately all of the ship’s passengers were obsessed with greed and conquest. Not only that, but she had been having ominous premonitions about the man she was traveling with—a man who, she confessed, had once owned her, but who now, even though he had finally released her from bondage, had become increasingly cruel and unhinged.

The Negro pulled himself up to his full height, his sad blazing eyes staring into hers. Perhaps she was right. If she was foolish enough to become involved with such confusion and venal behavior, he would be better off where he was.

He walked away, then paused and slowly turned back, asking if he could buy or trade for her. He had plenty of beads and skins to bargain with, as well as all the fruit the ship would need. He looked over at Zebulon. Not only that, but it was clear that she should run away as soon as possible, as one of the men she was traveling with was possessed by a very strange spirit, unlike any he had ever witnessed.

Delilah replied that having been given her freedom, she was no longer for sale and that if she ran away it would be on her own terms, no one else’s.

The Negro nodded, not believing a word. Removing a handful of cowry shells from a small bag hanging from a string around his neck, he tossed them high in the air, then knelt to study the patterns they formed on the sand.

She was owned, he told her. But not by a man. She was owned by a curse.

Impatiently, the Count took her arm. “Are you coming, or do you prefer the company of a savage?”

When she hesitated he stomped after the others, all of whom—except for Zebulon, who had remained behind—were already halfway to the lifeboat.

“Would you consider abandoning the ship?” she asked, only half joking.

“Not hardly,” Zebulon replied. “Not when there’s gold to be found.”

The Negro, who had been watching their exchange, nodded abruptly to Delilah, then walked back over the dune with the Seminoles.

~ ~ ~

Zebulon and Delilah were in the lifeboat and halfway back to The Rhinelander when the Negro reappeared on top of the dune.

Bending a long bow, he shot an arrow in a high arc toward them, a flight that missed the lifeboat by less than a foot.