From behind the shack a child’s voice came in an old English tune singing mockingly,
“Uncle Edward came from Nassau
Some candy for to sell
I buy some and P.H. buy some
and the candy give us hell—”
Uncle Edward turned his fine face, looking as sad as it was angry, in the bright afternoon light.
“I know you,” he said. “I can’t see you but I know who you are. I’ll report you to Constable.”
The child’s voice went on, rising clear and gay,
“Oh Edward
Oh Edward
Buff, rough, tough Uncle Edward
Your candy rotten.”
“Constable going to hear about this,” Uncle Edward said. “Constable know what steps to take.”
“Any rotten candy today, Uncle Edward?” the child’s voice called. He was careful to keep out of sight.
“Man is persecuted,” Uncle Edward said aloud as he walked on. “Man has his robe of dignity plucked at and destroyed. Oh, Good Lord, forgive them for they know not what they do.”
Ahead down the King’s Highway there was more singing coming from the rooms up above the Ponce de León. A Negro boy slipped by hurrying along the coral road.
“Been a fight, Mr. Tom,” he said. “Or something. Gentleman off’n a yacht been throwing things out of a window.”
“What things, Louis?”
“Any kind of things, Mr. Tom. Gentleman throw anything he can get his hands on. Lady try to stop him he say he going to throw the lady, too.”
“Where’s the gentleman from?”
“Big man from up north. Claims he can buy and sell the whole island. Guess he could get it pretty cheap if he keeps throwing it around the way he’s doing.”
“Constable taken any action, Louis?”
“No sir, Mr. Tom. Nobody has called in Constable yet. But way everybody figures, Constable’s time is coming.”
“You with them, Louis? I wanted to get some bait for tomorrow.”
“Yes sir, I’ll get your bait, Mr. Tom. Don’t worry about bait. I been with them right along. They hired me to take them bonefishing this morning and I been with them ever since. Only they ain’t been bonefishing. No sir. Unless throwing plates and cups and mugs and chairs and every time Mr. Bobby brings him the bill he tears up the bill and tells Mr. Bobby he’s a robbing thieving bastard and a crook is bonefishing.”
“Sounds like a difficult gentleman, Louis.”
“Mr. Tom, he’s the damnedest gentleman you ever saw before or since. He had me singing for them. You know I can’t sing good like Josey but I sing as good as I can and sometimes I sing better than I can. I’m singing good as I can. You know how it is. You heard me sing. All he wants to hear is that mama don’t want no peas no rice no coconut oil song. Over and over. It’s an old song and I get tired so I said to him, ‘Sir I know new songs. Good songs. Fine songs. And I know old songs such as the loss of John Jacob Astor on the Titanic when sunk by an iceberg and I would be glad to sing them rather than that no peas no rice song if you so wish.’ I said it polite and pleasant as you want.
As you know I would say it. So this gentleman say, ‘Listen you ignorant black little bastard I own more stores and factories and newspapers than John Jacob Astor had pots to, you know the word, in, and I’ll take you and shove your head in those pots if you try to tell me what I want to hear.’ So then his lady said, ‘Darling, do you really have to be so rude to the boy? I thought he sang very well and I would like to hear some of the new songs.’ And the gentleman said, ‘Listen you. You won’t hear them and he won’t sing them.’ Mr. Tom, he’s a strange gentleman. But his lady just said, ‘Oh darling, you are difficult.’ Mr. Tom, he’s difficulter than a diesel engine is to a newborn tree monkey out of its mother’s womb. Excuse me if I talk too much. This has aroused me. He’s got her feeling very bad.”
“What are you going to do about them now, Louis?”
“I been to get conch pearls,” he said.
They had stopped in the shade of a palm while he had been talking and he brought out a quite clean cloth from his pocket and unfolded it to show a half dozen of the shiny, nacreous pink, unpearllike pearls that are sometimes found in conches by the natives when they clean them and that no woman Thomas Hudson had ever known except Queen Mary of England has ever cared for as a gift.
Of course Thomas Hudson could not think that he knew Queen Mary except through the papers and in pictures and a profile of her in The New Yorker but the fact that she liked conch pearls made him feel that he knew her better than he knew many other people he had known for a long time. Queen Mary liked conch pearls and the island was celebrating her birthday tonight, he thought, but he was afraid conch pearls would not make the gentleman’s lady feel very much better. Then, too, it Was always possible that Queen Mary said she liked them to please her subjects in the Bahamas.
They had walked down to the Ponce de León and Louis was saying, “His lady was crying, Mr. Tom. She was crying very bitterly. So I suggested I might go up to Roy’s and get some conch pearls for her to inspect.”
“They ought to make her very happy,” Thomas Hudson said. “If she likes conch pearls.”
“I hope they will. I’m taking them up now.”
Thomas Hudson went into the bar where it was cool and almost dark after the glare of the coral road and had a gin and tonic water with a piece of lime peel in the glass and a few drops of Angostura in the drink. Mr. Bobby was behind the bar looking terrible. Four Negro boys were playing billiards, occasionally lifting the table when necessary to bring off a difficult carom. The singing had stopped upstairs and it was very quiet in the room except for the click of the balls. Two of the crew of the yacht that was tied up in the slip were at the bar and as Thomas Hudson’s eyes adjusted to the light it was dim and cool and pleasant. Louis came downstairs.
“Gentleman’s asleep,” he said. “I left the pearls with his lady. She’s looking at them and crying.”
He saw the two sailors from the yacht look at each other but they didn’t say anything. He stood there, holding the long, pleasantly bitter drink, tasting the first swallow of it, and it reminded him of Tanga, Mombasa, and Lamu and all that coast and he had a sudden nostalgia for Africa. Here he was, settled on the island, when he could as well be in Africa. Hell, he thought, I can always go there. You have to make it inside of yourself wherever you are. You are doing all right at that here.
“Tom, do you really like the taste of that stuff?” Bobby asked him.
“Sure. Or I wouldn’t drink it.”
“I opened a bottle by mistake once and it tasted like quinine.”
“It’s got quinine in it.”
“People surely are crazy,” Bobby said. “Man can drink anything he wants. He has money to pay for it He’s supposed to be taking his pleasure and he spoils good gin by putting it into some kind of a Hindu drink with quinine in it.”
“It tastes good to me. I like the quinine taste with the lime peel. I think it sort of opens up the pores of the stomach or something. I get more of a kick out of it than any other gin drink. It makes me feel good.”
“I know. Drinking always makes you feel good. Drinking makes me feel terrible. Where’s Roger?”
Roger was a friend of Thomas Hudson’s, who had a fishing shack down the island.
“He ought to be over soon. We’re going to eat with Johnny Goodner.”
“What men like you and Roger Davis and Johnny Goodner that been around stay around this island for I don’t know.”
“It’s a good island. You stay here, don’t you?”
“I stay to make a living.”
“You could make a living in Nassau.”
“Nassau, hell. There’s more fun here. This is a good island for having fun. Plenty money been made here, too.”
“I like to live here.”
“Sure,” said Bobby. “I do, too. You know that. If I can make a living. You sell those pictures you paint all the time?”
“They sell pretty good now.”
“People paying money for pictures of Uncle Edward. Pictures of Negroes in the water. Negroes on land. Negroes in boats. Turtle boats. Sponge boats. Squalls making up. Waterspouts. Schooners that got wrecked. Schooners building. Everything they could see free. They really buy them?”
“Sure they buy them. Once a year you have a show in New York and they sell them.”
“Auction them off?”
“No. The dealer who shows them puts a price on them. People buy them. Museums buy one once in a while.”
“Can’t you sell them yourself?”
“Sure.”
“I’d like to buy a waterspout,” Bobby said. “Damn big waterspout. Black as hell. Maybe better two waterspouts going roaring over the flats making a noise so you can’t hear. Sucking all the water across and scare you to
