The Man Who Ivented Florida

THIRTEEN

When the Captain told William Bambridge that he'd be taking him and the two Chucks back to the mainland day after tomorrow, Bambridge thought, Damn! I was going to make cevi-che…

The Captain told him, "Tall 'n' Short got most my cane in. Debt's paid. And you a fair damn cook. All them dishes I never had before. But I promised a man to deliver a load of goods on the ninth. Even gave me a calendar so I'd know the days. And I ain't the sort to break a promise."

"That's the truth, Captain. No one's going to argue with you there!"

When he got the news, Bambridge was sweeping the shack with a broom he'd made with his own two hands. Cut a green bamboo handle and lashed a bundle of dried reeds to it, trimmed neat. Every morning at first light, he swept the shack. Tied open the bamboo shutters to let the air and fresh sunlight in, then went to work on the packed dirt floor. For more than two weeks, that had been paft of his routine. Truth was, he'd come to enjoy the routine; didn't realize how much until the Captain told him he'd be leaving.

I've got so much to write down. I've got to make more notes! What I really need is a couple more hours just listening to the Captain talk.

Every day, the first thing Bambridge did when he got up was get the stove going. Not a stove, really-a metal bucket with holes punched in it and openings at both sides for draft. Then he'd put coffee on and sweep the shack while the water boiled. He liked to sweep; liked the way his broom made neat swirls in the dirt, and each morning, he decorated the floor with new patterns. He'd fold the two bed pallets, both stuffed with moss and leaves, then he'd get breakfast going.

The cooking, that's what he liked best.

The first day, the Captain had told him, "Grits and mullet. That's all I got; that's what you'll cook. Boil 'em both, 'cause springwater's the onliest thing we got plenty of."

Which explained to Bambridge why he hadn't been able to eat much, the food was so bad. So that first afternoon, with the Captain down overseeing the two Chucks, Bambridge decided to scout out the place. He took one of the machetes and cut his way through the jungle that canopied the island's low mounds. Escape had been on his mind, but he got too hot and tired, so he sat down to rest-and there, by his feet, saw that the ground was littered with little yellow limes.

"Spanish limes," the Captain would tell him later, though Bambridge guessed they were really called key limes.

The limes smelled wonderful-like sweet flowers-and so did the leaves of the tree that bore them. Bambridge had collected the limes in a pile, then set off to explore some more.

Two hours later, he returned to the shack using his shirt as a makeshift bag. He had the limes, plus ten ripe avocado pears, a bunch of guavas, a green papaya, several big knobby oranges that were too sour to eat (but would be fine for making drinks), lime leaves for seasoning, and a half dozen eggs from the nest of some kind of bird-pelicans, maybe. Bambridge didn't know.

The old man had eyed him narrowly as Bambridge came into the clearing. "Thought yew'd hightailed it."

"No sir, Captain." Bambridge had smiled, trying to ingratiate himself-God, he'd die if he had to go back to the pit! "I was out doing some shopping."

The old man had studied the fruit and eggs, shrugged, and said, "I knowed such truck was out there, just seemed too fancy to spend time huntin' it. You don't mind pickaninny work, he'p yourself."

Cooking became fun after that.

Now, for breakfast, they might have an egg or two with grits cakes soaked in cane syrup. For dinner, they might have mullet baked beneath orange peels, guava sauce, and avocado slices marinated in lime juice.

Every day, Bambridge tried to come up with something different.

After the first week, Bambridge had said to the old man, "Captain, what we could really use is a different kind of fish."

"Mullet's the onliest kinda fish I catch in my throw net. Mullet and a sand bream sometimes."

"Yes, I know, and the men love it-I think I can speak for them. But I want to do a poached fish dish, use the lime leaves and this kind of peppery plant I've found. And mullet is just a little too greasy and strong for the sort of thing I have in mind."

The old man had a way scrunching his face, an expression of sour bemusement. Without a word, he had dropped a coiled fishing line into Bambridge's lap, then walked off.

So that gave Bambridge freedom of the whole island, not just the thick interior. Not that there was a beach. Nothing like it. Mangroves grew right down to the water; trees so dense that the old man had had to carve out a little tunnel beneath the limbs just to have a place to keep the boats. But Bambridge could still wade out and collect oysters and clams; even found a couple of big mahogany-colored shells he thought might be conchs. Beneath the rocks, at low tide, there were all kinds of crabs. A few small shrimp, too.

That night, the old man had sniffed the steaming pot. "Fish soup?" he asked.

"Bouillabaisse," Bambridge corrected, feeling pretty good about himself. "Perhaps the finest I've ever made. And that, sir, is saying something."

Foraging for food became Bambridge's passion. When breakfast was made and the shack was neat, he headed out. The mosquitoes didn't bother him so much anymore. His body had been covered with welts, but the welts disappeared, though the damn bugs continued to bite. So he walked and swatted, waded and gathered and swatted some more.

Surprising, but Bambridge had to admit it: He had even come to like the old man. The Captain kept his distance; couldn't easily be drawn into conversation. But sometimes, after a good dinner, he'd start telling stories, extraordinary stories of Florida's pioneer days. Of the things he'd done, of what it took to survive. And Bambridge would sit making careful mental notes, not saying a word for fear that to speak would remind the old man that someone was there listening.

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.