One day Gerald stole out on the deck. The sun was broiling hot. His
mother was with him.
"Mama," he said, "let's go roun' de uddah side."
"Wha' fuh, sonny?"
"Ah wan' fuh go out dere at the Portugee shop an' buy a ball o' cookoo
an' a piece o' salt fish. My mout' ain't got a bit o' taste."
"Yo' can't do that, son, there ain't any shops in the sea," she said,
smiling weakly at him. "Come, let's go back--I don't feel so good."
Then it suddenly happened. They were below, it was dark, quiet,
noiseless. Even the engines had stopped. Boom! it came. It sounded like
the roar of a cannon. It shook the ship. Glass jingled. Things fell.
Gerald's energetic mind flew hurriedly back to Black Rock. Often there
would be sun and rain--all at once. The gap folk had become so used to
it that they said it was the "devil and his wife fighting."
Until now lazy and half-asleep, the deckers rose, scrambling up on the
above deck. Their baggage was going with them.
Gerald turned to his mother, busy combing her hair. She said, "Come,
Gerald, put on yo' Sunday hat, son, yo' at Colon."
But he was skeptical. He stole upstairs and was an eager witness to the
ship's surrender. The _Wellington_, a princess of the sea, had given in
to the greater force of the earth. Soberly and serenely she had done so.
V
"Well, Sarah, who's this?"
"The last one, Gerald."
"He grow big, yes."
"Skipper don't even know he own son."
"Suck fingah buay."
"Shut up, Saboogles!"
"Fairf!"
"Come heah, son, don't cry--come 'n say howdee to yo' pappy."
"Tek yo' fingah outa yo' mout', sah."
"Say, something, no, Gerald--"
"Howdee!"
"Say howdee pappy."
"Howdee pappy."
"Oi don't know wha' mattah wit' dis' boy, ni. Comin' on de boat he
was--"
"Come an' kiss me, sah."
He flinched at the suggestion. But there was no escape and he had to
put up his face to receive the wet, disgusting kiss.
"Like yo' ent glad to see yo' pappy," he heard his mother say, and was
ferocious at her, "an' bin talkin' an' exquirin' 'bout what yo' look
like, Lucian, evah sense we lef' B'bados."
He slunk back, shuddering at the touch of the man, and took a good look
at him. He was crouched before a machine. He was fairer than Sarah--she
was black, he a yellowish brown. He was soft, yet not fat, but he gave
one the appearance of being weak and flabby. He was biting thread.
Gold-rimmed brown glasses barely shaded eyes circulating in two seamy
bloodshot pools. His hairy arms rested soft and heavy on the machine.
He was bald, and his mouth was large and sensuous. It was a roaming
mouth. His hands were of putty. Every time he swallowed, or raised his
head, a rum goggle as modest as a turkey gobbler's would slide up and
down.
The place was noisy and vulgar. It smelt of brandy and Jamaica rum,
but tuxedos and crash tunics were sewed there for the dandy _bomberos_
of the Republic. Far into the night it kept twenty men on the job,
but it was an idler's and a lazy man's joint. Customers like the
judge, a proud, blue-eyed Spaniard, would stop by on their way home at
night--but it was a hang-out and an assignation spot for _cabrons_ and
bare-footed black mares.
"Go an' pick up dah cotton reel fuh mah," Bright said to him, "an' put
dis empty bottle behind the counter--"
It was here that Gerald was to take on the color of life.