Lily Cigar

by Tom Murphy

  Her cabin was tiny, but it delighted her. Her cabin! How lovely that sounded. What a ring there was to it: Mrs. Malone’s cabin. The little space was about twelve feet long by eight feet wide, and once two of her trunks were stowed there, and the hand valise, plus the bed and a small armoire and a little table, it was all a person could do to turn around. Still, it was hers. Her first home. A place where, for the first time in her life, Lily ruled. However small, however temporary, however much the result of sinning. Come in. Don’t come in. Stay. Go. All these commands, all this authority was hers to exercise. At whim. It was delicious. A person could get drunk with it! The walls were wood and not painted. They curved, of course, being the outer side of the ship’s hull, and the low ceiling of the cabin was the deck. Lily could hear footsteps, heard them vividly, felt the thumping as trunks and boxes were deposited none too gently on the deck. And every footstep held a promise. Who might the other passengers be? What friends might she find among them? Naturally, she’d be very discreet. A young married woman couldn’t be too careful, that much she knew; her reputation, however false, was a thing to be cherished.

  Suddenly Lily felt tired. She had done no real work this day, but the anticipation, the meeting of tests and passing them, the finality of it all, these things took their toll of her. She sat down on the narrow cot and thought about all the things she was leaving this day, and all that might come to her in the new place on the far side of the world. There. That was better. Maybe a bit of a nap. She relaxed, lay back, swung her feet up, being careful that they dangled over the edge of the bed a little, for she was the last girl in the world to soil someone’s good coverlet. Then Lily closed her eyes and drifted into a dream.

  In Lily’s dream the sun shone hot and clear on the land, all golden and pure, warming and gentle as love and, like love, if it burned, she did not feel it. The land in Lily’s dream was gentle too, rolling hills covered in grain, and the grain itself was golden, ripening. The hills flowed in their gentle rounded way to the horizon, gold meeting blue, and now and again on a hill there would be one huge tree, strong and deeply green, a tree for the fairy folk to dance under by moonlight. And Lily was not alone in her dream. She walked through the fields, which she somehow knew were her fields, hand in hand with a tall, gentle, golden man. They said nothing. They had no need for words. Who was this man? The land seemed to belong to Lily in the dream, and he, too, was hers. In the dream. In the new golden land. In the clear warming sunshine. In her dream Lily smiled, then frowned just slightly. There must be a child in the dream! But there was no child, not there, not in this part. Maybe the child was at home, or with its nurse, for surely in such a golden place there must be a house, and servants. Of course. She lay there in the shadowed ship’s cabin and dreamed this dream, a slow and silent dream, no words in it, and no sounds. Not a bird sang in Lily’s dream, and even the wind was still in the wheatfield. She moved in the dream and never felt the earth beneath her, held his hand and didn’t feel the strength in it, or the warmth either, like a ghost she moved, that’s what it must be, a ghost dream, and everyone in it dead. It was a lovely dream, too bad it died. Died and must go to the place where dreams got buried. Lily wondered, half in her dream and half analyzing the magic of it, wondered if the angels wept when a dream died, and how you buried hopes, what the prayers might be to whisper at the crypt of expectations.

  Slowly Lily raised one hand to her cheek and wiped away a tear.

  Still she lay there in the ship’s cabin and drew a kind of sad nourishment from her golden dream. If she could think of Brooks as truly dead, this would be a help for her. Dead as Fergy he must be, and if not forgotten, then surely put aside to the place where memories of dead people lie. Nice to think on, but do not think too long or too hard about a thing so very far beyond control. Think, instead, about tomorrow morning, and all the other tomorrows, chains and chains of them stretching from New York to California from this year of our Lord 1856 into who knew what distant time.

  Suddenly the ship moved. Instinctively Lily reached out and clutched the sides of her bed as if to keep herself from falling out of it. The ship was alive now, creaking and groaning and making a hundred unfamiliar noises. They must be putting out to sea! And she’d almost dozed through the greatest event of her life! Lily sat up, shook the dregs of her dream out of her head, stood, rearranged her dress, caught a glimpse of her hair in the porthole, straightened it, and left the little cabin to go up on deck.

  Lily’s cabin was amidships, and the steep, narrow, brass-edged stairway was just two cabins away. Her wide skirts filled the narrow hallway and engulfed the tiny stairwell. Soon she was on deck, and it was a sight worth waking for.

  The huge iron anchor lay dripping in its housing below the bow. A longboat manned by fourteen crack oarsmen was towing the big clipper out into the East River and around the tip of the island to a place just off Battery Park. Lily found herself a quiet nook back from the railing and stood shyly by herself, unashamedly awed by the spectacle.

  She had never seen Manhattan from the water. It seemed to have more church steeples than her pincushion had pins, each one beckoning to God, some more aggressively than others, Catholic steeples and Episcopalian steeples and Methodist steeples. All pointing to God, armies of steeples. And would God point back? The tallest tower was not a steeple at all, but the immense shot tower where they made cannon-balls. Lily wondered what God might make of that, the closest thing to him being an instrument of death? Still, it was a fine sight, and the bustling on board was fine too, all the raggle-taggle seamen working as a team now, rather as many small teams all doing different things. They climbed in the rigging so high and so fast it took Lily’s breath away, the sheer height, and what could save them if they fell? They were off the Battery Park now, and Lily could see the fine ladies and gentlemen who had nothing better to do than come down to hear the chanties and see the clippers set sail. The chanties were part of the routine just as much as coiling a line in a certain way, or shining up the brass. Each little knot of men had its own chanter, and its own special chanties. They were setting the sails now. And a new chant began:

  Then up aloft that yard must go,

  Whiskey for my Johnny.

  Oh, whiskey is the life of man,

  Whiskey, Johnny!

  I thought I heard the old man say,

  Whiskey for my Johnny.

  We’re bound away this very day,

  Whiskey, Johnny!

  A dollar a day is a white man’s pay,

  Whiskey for my Johnny.

  Oh, whiskey killed my sister Sue,

  Whiskey, Johnny!

  And whiskey killed my old man, too…

  It was endless. And every time the beat came around, the men hauled on the long ropes in unison. It became a kind of a dance, and the rhythms in the chant were echoed in the rippling sails, which rose with great slaps and popping sounds, loud as pistol shots but with a deep resonance, as if the wind god himself were applauding the seamen’s singing. And Lily felt that she was a part of it all, too, that somehow just by being there she was speeding the great clipper on its way.

  The sun itself seemed to be on the move now, darting in and out of the clouds, giving and taking its light and adding to the pace and drama of the scene. The afternoon air had suddenly taken on a chill. The crowds on shore were thinning. The main topsails went snapping up the topgallants, royals, and skysails. Suddenly, at no signal that Lily could discern, the clipper strained forward.

  The sails were all up now. startling in their enormity, pregnant with the freshening wind, eager on the turning tide. The raked-back masts groaned like thrashing lovers with the force of it. The gilded lady on the bow gazed resolutely seaward. Lily found herself at the rail without remembering how she got there.

  The Eurydice seemed to glide, to soar as a gull soars. But one look at the river rushing past the rail showed Lily the force and speed of her. The Battery was receding, the trees and steeples and people were toys in the distance n
ow. They raced past Staten Island, past the Heights of Brooklyn, and Lily had a moment’s pang as she thought of her old friend Fran, gone into service there these four years, and not a word in all that time. Was Fran living, even, and living still in Brooklyn?

  Lily smiled a rueful smile then, for sure and no one had to tell her how very much could happen to a girl, even a servant girl, in four years. Why, Fran might be married and a mother. She might be rich, or a fallen woman, or dead. Or she might be scrubbing floors, dulled by drudgery, persecuted. She might own a gold mine in California! Brooklyn Heights slipped past, and vanished, silent, dim as Lily’s memory of Fran from the orphanage. She turned, and looked back. You could hardly see Manhattan anymore. Lily wondered if she would ever see it again, or if she’d want to. They were in the Narrows now and the sea was coming at them headlong. Soon the calm and current of the Hudson River would be behind them. Soon they’d be at the mercy of God and his oceans. It was getting quite chilly. Lily had forgotten her shawl. She covered her left hand with her right hand and instinctively twisted the narrow golden wedding band on her third finger. A golden lie, false as her golden dream. And yet it was a kind of passport into the new world she would create for herself, for her child.

  New York was now nothing more than a few dark bumps on the horizon. They passed another clipper coming toward the harbor, passed quite close, heard the cheering of the merry crew, home and safe at last after who knew how many months and what perils on the seas.

  Months and perils. Well, Lily told herself, if you aren’t ready now, my fine Mrs. Fergus Malone, you never will be.

  “I hope you will forgive my presumption,” said a quiet voice at Lily’s elbow, “but since we two seem to be the only unescorted ladies on board, I thought it might be useful to make your acquaintance, my dear. I am Sophie Delage. Mrs. Sophie Delage.”

  Lily turned, startled. There stood a most imposing lady, of middle height and ample build, an older lady whose brown hair was touched with gray, dressed simply but expensively in black, almost in mourning, adorned with a fine cameo brooch set in gold at her bosom, wearing a black mohair shawl and, like Lily, hatless in the breeze. The woman’s face was unusual: neither pretty nor ugly, it had a definite and very resolved character about it. She looked like a person of some consequence, a woman of decision. Then, remembering her manners, Lily smiled and offered her hand.

  “I,” she said softly, “am Mrs. Fergus Malone.” The words came out of Lily’s mouth so easily that it frightened her. To tell such a lie and not be struck dead for it! To inflict an unsuspecting stranger, a kind stranger at that, with the bold deception that must become the foundation of her new life.

  Sophie Delage smiled. Lily smiled back, suddenly shy, feeling much younger than her years. How old must Mrs. Delage be? Surely no older than Jack’s mother. Surely the woman was well into her fifties. And very prosperous, by the look of her. And sailing alone for San Francisco. Lily wondered about her new acquaintance, where Mr. Delage might be, and in what line of work, did she have children, why was she on the clipper? But the questions and their answers would keep. Four months, likely, they’d have in these close quarters. Lily wondered if they’d become friends, if she could afford to have a friend, if it would be possible to maintain a friendship and yet keep her secret—the living, forming, growing little secret that she literally carried within her.

  The two women stood together at the rail as the last glimpse of land slipped out of sight behind the wake of the Eurydice. This would be her world now, this little wooden platform with its three huge raked masts, its acres of bulging canvas, polished brass, rough-looking sailors. And, somewhere, Captain Endicott and the occupants of the four other cabins. What adventures might they not share! What thrills and perils! Lily’s basic fear of the deep, greedy ocean had all fallen away in the excitement of leaving New York, of leaving her past unalterably behind. But now, as she stood at the rail with Mrs. Delage, staring into the darkening sea as the ship strained forward, the fears came back. The sea that got Fergy might get her, too. It might get all of them.

  Mrs. Delage’s voice startled Lily. “You look rather pensive, my dear. Are you thinking sad thoughts, perhaps regretting loved ones left behind? I always feel happy and sad when I sail, both emotions at the same time. Is it that way for you, Mrs. Malone?”

  “Oh,” said Lily too quickly, hoping she hadn’t been rude, “I’m afraid I was thinking a sad thought. Which is foolish, for sure and I’m happy to be sailing. It is a great adventure for me, my first voyage.”

  “Better, far, I am told, than the overland route, or cutting across Panama. One day, they say, the railroad will be safe. Until then, we all must become sailors.”

  “Yes. Do you live in San Francisco, then?”

  “I do, my dear, although I daresay I won’t recognize the place when we get there, it does change that fast.”

  “Growing like weeds, they say.”

  “Exactly like weeds, with as little plan. It is a rough place, you’ll discover, but lively. It is a town, if I do say so, of many opportunities.”

  “Oh,” said Lily, more fervently than her new friend could possibly know: “I hope so.”

  They traded small pleasantries as the sun set. Then Mrs. Delage went below to unpack, promising to join Lily at supper. Lily went down herself a few minutes later, her head filled with thoughts of her new acquaintance. It was hard to put Mrs. Delage into a category. Her appearance and dress indicated prosperity. But something about her, a certain brusqueness, a businesslike quality, made Lily think that she was not simply a rich man’s wife. Well, time would tell about Mrs. Delage and her occupations. Lily was grateful for the older woman’s offer of friendship, however tentative. Sophie Delage was right, of course: it made sense for the two lone women on the ship to stick together if that would be possible. Lily wondered if the captain had brought his wife, if he had a wife. Clipper-ship captains often took their families on voyages, particularly to the Far East, for a trip out there and back might well last years. It would be pleasant to have still another woman among all these men. But in any event, one more test had been passed. Mrs. Delage had been kind, had accepted Lily at face value.

  The next test would be the evening meal. Lily dreaded that, and her doubts and fears were only a little eased by the thought that Mrs. Delage would be there too, that she wouldn’t be quite alone. Still, it was terrifying.

  Suppose there might be someone on board who knew her story! Could they put a paid-in-full passenger off for misrepresentation? What would happen if they laughed at her? Was it a crime to have a man’s baby and not be married to him? Lily’s head began spinning. She held onto the cabin wall, sat down on the bed, tried to force herself to be more cheerful. But the cheerfulness would not come. This isn’t like you, Lillian Malone, hop to it!

  She tried to think of something funny, but all Lily could summon up out of the depths of her mind was the image of Fergy the last time she’d seen him, there in the big dark reception room of the orphanage, seen the fire in his eyes, the eagerness to be off, the do-or-die resolution in his young face. Well, he did, and he also died. Do or die. And here she was, pregnant, too, following the same watery path. Maybe to the same watery grave! To be reunited with Fergy again! And would it be worth the dying?

  Lily had a vision of herself, dead, still pregnant, forever pregnant, which would be God’s punishment on her, her special hell, yes, herself dead and passing by Fergy at the front door of hell and him not even recognizing her. Did people talk to each other when they were dead? Did they kiss and laugh and make love? She thought of her parents, side by side in the black earth of the Twelfth Street cemetery. She hadn’t even gone to say good-bye or to put a flower on that grave. And now there was no one to do that, or even think of doing it. She could write, maybe, but to whom? Lily closed her eyes then, and lay down as she had earlier, when the beautiful golden dream had come to her. But there was no golden dream this time. Only darkness filled Lily’s head, and dark thoughts too.
The motion of the clipper was soothing to her. It rocked and rocked, up and then down with a steady falling rhythm. A huge wooden cradle it was, the Eurydice, specially made for the unborn child of Lily Malone and Jack Wallingford.

  And there was another she’d likely never set eyes on again. Jack, too, was slipping away from her as the shoreline had slipped away. Careless, moody, dangerous Jack. Jack, who was bursting with passion one moment and with despair the next. Jack, who obviously hated himself and his life, but hadn’t the courage to chuck it all and make a new life. Jack, who had planted his seed in her, wild and thoughtless as the wind, paid her off and sent her packing. Jack was probably setting about ruining some other innocent right this minute in his snug little hotel suite on Sixteenth Street. Lily squeezed her eyes tighter as if by doing this she could squeeze out the image of Jack Wallingford. She’d concentrate on the motion of the ship. She’d rehearse what she’d be saying tonight at supper, what she’d say to the captain and the other passengers. What could she do to cement her new friendship with Mrs. Delage? Finally, mercifully, she dozed into forgetfulness.

  It was dark when the ship’s bell woke Lily. Seven times it chimed. She sat up, blinking, wondering for a moment where she was, then remembering, feeling the fear and the adventure of the sailing come rushing back at her with a force so strong it was almost physical. There had been a candle on the little chest of drawers by the bed. Lily fumbled for a match, struck it, lit the candle. The orange flame sputtered and caught, brightening the small cabin. One candle surely would do for such a space. The candlestick was ingenious, a brass saucer and two curving arms coming up out of it, with the candle itself cunningly suspended between the arms on a pronged pivot so it remained upright no matter how the ship rolled. The candlestick pleased Lily: someone had thought about the problem of steadying a flame, and solved it handsomely. The Eurydice continued its rhythmic plunge through the Atlantic Ocean, but Lily’s candle flame glowed straight and proud against the night. And I will be steady as that flame, no matter what the weather, she thought, and smiled on the strength of it, fixing her hair and finding her shawl.