by Tom Murphy
“You’re off bein’ logical again. Logic is the least of it, Brooks. It’s what folks feel, in their hearts, that makes wars. And what my people feel is fighting mad.”
“You may be right, though I devoutly hope not. Anyway, we’re safe. By this time next month you’ll be Mrs. Chaffee and a certified Yankee. And I shall be the happiest man in the world.”
A new light crossed her face then, and she reached up and touched his face. As ever, Brooks melted to her lightest touch. On the slender hand that so affected him was his engagement ring: a large cushion-cut ruby framed in seed pearls and diamonds, the ruby red and fiery as her lips, pearls perfect as her skin, the diamonds pure and hot as his need for her. Next month, in New Orleans, this extraordinary girl would become his wife, and to Brooks this was a true miracle whose cataclysmic power erased the fact that his brother, Neddy, seemed a little cool about the match, that Jack Wallingford seemed to be drunk more or less constantly now, and that a big war might well be brewing. In the pink light of his newfound joy, the world looked perfect to Brooks, and everyone in it reflected his happiness. He kissed her.
Lily paced the deck, sometimes alone, often with Sophie, always fighting the fear that they would be becalmed here forever, that they’d starve, that she’d give birth to the baby on board and her shame would be known to everyone, that she’d go mad.
The calm had lasted ten days now, and going mad seemed to be a real possibility. The tensions on board multiplied with every new day.
The captain threw a corked bottle overboard to mark their progress, if any, and for three days the bottle stayed exactly where he’d flung it, a few dozen yards off portside, hanging almost motionless in the slick green sea like an accusing finger. Not a breeze stirred nor a fish jumped. It was as though the Eurydice and everyone on it had been visited by some strange curse. The forces of nature were all asleep, and this was more terrifying than a violent storm, for at least in a storm there was action, a sense of having some control over the furies of fate.
Now came a time of make-work and petty squabbling among the crew. All the brass had been polished until it shone like gold, every rope was coiled into new perfections of geometry, the deck stoned and oiled, paint renewed. A canvas screen was improvised in the stern, the better to preserve the modesty of the female passengers, and some of the crew and a few of the male passengers went swimming noisily from rope ladders.
Lily read and sewed and talked lazily with Sophie. Sometimes Lily had a sense that Sophie was observing her with a strange intensity.
Lily might look up from her sewing and find the older woman’s eyes fixed on her with an appraising stare that Lily found disconcerting. Ah, surely she means no harm, and isn’t it natural for her to be a bit curious, for the Lord knows I am, too. And Lily would put aside her doubts, for the practical side of her nature told her she must keep her fears under the tightest rein, or they’d run away with her for sure.
And for all the strangeness and privation of this voyage, Lily found herself enjoying it, for wasn’t it the first step in her new life? And wasn’t it a good thing to have this time to gather her wits and practice her new role?
And, thus far, the new role seemed to be working. No one had challenged her, or even questioned her identity. Well, it’s because I’m of too little account to be worth questioning, that’s why, and lucky I am for it.
Lily cherished each small particle of respectability like a miser, and every time one of the crew or a fellow passenger called her “Mrs. Malone,” this added to her small and precious hoard; a frail and stolen foundation it might be for the new life she hoped to find, and yet it was all the foundation Lily had, and she was glad of it. She could see herself in San Francisco, the baby fat and healthy and under the care of some inexpensive but loving housekeeper, and herself off to work at the Emporium, neat in her hand-sewn dresses, and getting ahead, and maybe, one day, even finding a good man to marry her, and why not, her being a respectable young widow and a great scarcity of women in California, or so she’d heard.
It was with thoughts like these that Lily passed the endless hours while the Eurydice lay becalmed off Rio.
On the last day of the second week of the great calm, the cook went mad.
Lily was on deck in the stillness of the afternoon, sewing with Sophie in the scant shade of a furled sail. All of a sudden there came a terrible, incoherent yell, a clatter and a crashing, heavy footsteps running, and over it all the shrill, piercing, wounded-animal screaming of a soul writhing in the very fires of hell.
The cook came charging around the corner of the captain’s cabin, wild of eye and red of face, screaming louder, blood streaming from a gash on his forehead, waving a huge cleaver in death-dealing arcs over his head, so that none of the crewmen who followed him dared come close.
He raced to the ship’s rail and vaulted over, still yelling all the long way down to the glass-smooth sea. They all raced to the rail and looked down. Still yelling, the screams mixed with splashing and sputtering, clutching his cleaver like Neptune’s very scepter, the crazed man lit out for the farthest horizon.
Captain Endicott had the longboat half-lowered when the sharks came. The cook had been screaming so steadily that Lily was astonished to find Sophie screaming too. She turned to her friend, then back to the bloody spectacle below. There was the quick black triangle of a shark’s fin, then another. The foam turned red. The cook gave one last unforgettable howl of pain and madness. The sharks made another pass and then it was over. The last they saw of the wretched man was his arm waving spasmodically in hideous parody of a salutation, still clutching the cleaver. Then there was only silence and the smooth, smooth sea stretching uninterrupted to eternity.
Unconsciously Lily found herself making the sign of the cross. And I didn’t even know his name! The passengers and crew stood crowded at the rail long after the last trace of the cook had vanished from sight. One moment of screaming, and a life is gone. It’s that cheap, that accidental. Well, come what may, I will never do myself in; no matter what, I’ll fight and go on fighting and go down to death fighting, too, if I must.
Lily felt the baby within her, and a strange new sense of well-being came over her, strange, because in some way she could not understand, it was connected to the sad death of the cook. Suddenly she felt tired, and went below to sleep.
19
Brooks Chaffee slid the shining brass bolt shut and sealed the world outside. Then he turned to his bride. The world could well stay outside their opulent suite on board the Corsair, and forever!
Caroline was gazing out of the brassbound porthole, still wearing the cocoa-colored traveling gown she’d put on directly after the ceremony at the old Ledoux plantation, Belles Heures. What a well-named house! Many were the lovely hours they’d spent there this last week, and would again. Brooks fairly glowed, for he knew the lovely hours were really just beginning for Caroline and for him, and that with even the smallest bit of luck they would go on forever.
It seemed he’d been waiting for this moment all the days of his life. Twenty-one years was a long time to wait, and now he would wait no longer.
He went to Caroline, smiling, and thought of what she was giving up to marry him. This last week had been a whirl of the merriest, most elegant parties Brooks had ever seen. The scale of life on these great river plantations frankly astounded him. It was all so vast, so easy, so very heavily populated with armies of black servants—slaves, of course. If, beneath the lovely veneer of charm and soft accents and gentle manners that almost everyone he met seemed to come by naturally, there seethed a caldron that might soon bubble over, none of this intruded—or would be allowed to intrude—on his happiness. He saw Caroline, and only Caroline, and the world and its problems could wait, maybe forever.
Even this suite on the Corsair was perfect: large and paneled in mahogany, three rooms and a real bath, the owner’s suite, and why not, since old Ledoux himself was the owner! There were ivory-colored roses in a big old silver bowl, cha
mpagne chilling in a gilt-silver tub, and in the next room a wide low bed covered in silk and filled with the promise of love.
He walked up to Caroline, and standing close behind her, encircled her with his arms.
She was crying.
“My darling darling,” he said softly, “what can be the matter?”
Caroline, a sad wraith and lovely enough to break his heart, spun around in his arms and nestled close on his chest. He had never seen her like this, weeping, vulnerable as a wounded sparrow.
“I’m so afraid!”
Brooks felt himself growing as he stood there, growing stronger, more brave, the better to defend his Caroline from all the winds of fear that might be pursuing her, real or imagined. The poor thing, she’s afraid of the lovemaking, afraid I’ll hurt her! Brooks would have cheerfully died on the rack rather than hurt Caroline. He smiled again, indulgent, protective.
“Afraid of what, my dearest? There is nothing in all the world to harm you, dear Caroline, not while I live.”
“You’re so sweet.” But still she shuddered, and still she sobbed.
“What is wrong, my darling?”
“I’m afraid…that you’ll think…”
“Think what, my love? I think only of you, and only beautiful thoughts.”
“Once, when I was twelve, climbing in the peach tree at Belles Heures…”
“Yes?”
“I fell and…I did something to my insides, Brooks. I tore myself up.”
“Well, that’s too bad, dear, but surely you’re all right now. There’s nothing to worry about.”
“I was afraid you’d think…you see, I tore whatever you call it, I was afraid you’d think I’m not…pure.”
And she dissolved into sobbing again, and buried her small dark head in his shirtfront.
“How little you know me!” Brooks reached out and touched her cheek and gently lifted her face until at last she was looking into his eyes.
“You must understand,” he went on, “that I love you, Caroline, more than I have ever loved anything. I love you completely, insanely, perhaps stupidly, but totally and irrevocably. When first I saw your face—your beautiful face that should never shed a tear, ever again!—it was like falling off a cliff, that sudden, that shocking. Never doubt me, darling, nor that I love you as much as it is possible for me to love.”
For a moment she said nothing, but simply looked up at him, blinking her tears away. Then slowly a smile formed on her face, a smile that held all the magic of dawn lighting a field of wildflowers. And she spoke.
“You are a beautiful man, Mr. Chaffee, and you say the most beautiful things. And I love you, I do!”
She kissed him then, and he held her tighter so that she would never feel frightened again, not of him, nor of anything or anyone else in the world. And, still kissing her, Brooks lifted his bride of three hours and carried her into the waiting bedroom.
They never opened the wine that afternoon, nor that evening, either.
There was no timepiece in Lily’s cabin. Only by the light and the ship’s bells could she gauge the passing hours. Now she lay in the heat of late afternoon, thinking about the poor dead cook, and about many other things besides.
The voice, when it came, seemed to come from a great distance, and indeed it did, from the top of the tallest mast, from the crow’s nest, where a lookout was ever posted, looking for sails.
“Sail ho!”
A dozen voices took up the cry, louder, nearer. “Sail ho! Sail ho!”
Lily well knew what magic lived in that brief cry. If there’s a sail, then there must be wind to fill it, and this damned calm may soon be over. Quick as she could, Lily got up and went on deck. The excitement was vibrating in the still air. Faces that had been expressionless or frowning just this morning now wore grins. The captain was lowering two longboats, the better to tow them into the breeze. And there, there far to the starboard horizon, was a tiny white fleck that could only be a sail!
They looked at it in wonderment, like a sign from heaven. The air itself seemed to change now. It was brighter, less damp. The stranger ship passed them some fifteen miles away, a big clipper, regal as any swan. Then came a sound they’d thought they might never hear again—the crack of wind against canvas!
The great sails came alive again, swelling and straining, and looking, Lily thought, quite pregnant with wind. Pregnant, indeed! But at least she could smile at herself for entertaining such an irreverent thought.
Slowly at first the ship began moving.
And as it moved, and gained speed, a great cheer went up from passengers and crew alike. It was as if the poor mad cook had been some kind of necessary sacrifice to the sea gods, who were now appeased and would let them go on their way again.
The ship seemed to fly now. A new and happy mood pervaded the Eurydice. Once, walking the deck alone, Lily found herself face to face with the blond Norwegian sailor, and found that she could look at the lad, and smile, and that it meant no more to her than seeing any other member of the crew. In that moment a vast weight lifted from her soul, for Lily felt that she had somehow exorcised the ghost of Brooks Chaffee at last.
They sighted the coastline of Brazil on the second day after the calm ended. The captain sent two longboats ashore, heavily armed, fearing the natives, and all of the passengers were made to stay on board. Back came the boats laden with fresh drinking water and all manner of exotic fruits and vegetables: sweet green coconuts, bitter little oranges, limes, small fat bananas, breadfruit, and papaya. For days they feasted like natives, and only when the fresh food was gone did they realize how much they were going to miss the dead cook.
The flour had turned moldy weeks ago, and their only bread was the tough, dry hardtack that had all the flavor of an oak board. The dead cook had turned out surprisingly varied and edible meals, considering the small size of the galley and the limitations of his larder. Now his helpers took over, and the results were dubious at best. Gone were the tasty “ship’s pies” the old cook had made so well with chunks of pork and chicken and vegetables all sealed in flaky crust, perfect to eat when the ship was rolling. Now they got floury gruels with scraps of unidentifiable meat, and even the fresh fish they caught suffered in the preparation.
But at least they were moving. The clipper raced south. They could all feel the urgency in their pace, for full sails were flying and the captain pressed on relentlessly in his eagerness to make up for lost time.
The air grew colder, the coastline more mountainous, less green. Before long they’d be rounding the Horn! The voyage was nearly half done!
Having smiled on the Eurydice once again, the wind gods blew hard and fair, and the air vibrated with expectation.
It was Lily herself who first saw the albatross.
At first she could scarcely credit such a bird. His wings seemed to fill the sky. Huge he was, and pale gray, with webbed feet wide enough to shovel coal with. He hovered far above the ship, almost motionless, with never a beat of his great wide wings nor a nod of his cruel-beaked head. Nor did he make any sound. If the albatross sings, thought Lily, in the grip of a sudden and irrational fear, then it must be a dirge. For this was a ghost bird, the spirit of everyone lost at sea, a bad omen. Why was I on deck at this moment? Why did I look up? He might have passed unseen, for surely, by all the laws of God, only seeing the thing made it real.
Two days after Lily saw the albatross, the Eurydice sailed within sight of Tierra del Fuego. The land of fire. It certainly didn’t look very fiery, cruel gray mountains pasted against a cold gray sky. It was not a reassuring spectacle. Lily stood at the rail, her woolen shawl drawn tight around her, for the air was cold as winter now, and thought about being halfway to California.
The world on board the Eurydice was not a perfect world, but by now Lily felt at home there, whereas the San Francisco of her imagining held as many problems as it did possibilities. Suppose I get sick? Suppose the baby’s sick or a monster—God’s justice!—and suppose I can’t do
the work they ask of me at the Wallingford store? Maybe it’s all a hoax, just to get me away from Jack, as if I’d want him in the first place! Well, his letter of credit was no hoax. Lily knew that, for hadn’t she cashed half of it already, the gold coins sewn into her waistband, and the other half, full five hundred untouched dollars, due in San Francisco? And didn’t she have the manager’s name and address, Mr. Charles Linton, the store’s chief executive? Old John Wallingford had even written a letter to Linton, which Lily carried, unopened, in her trunk. Every time the fears welled up in her, Lily sternly reminded herself that they were unfounded, that all had been done to assure her secure employment in California that could be done. This did not make the doubts go away forever, but only temporarily, and they would come creeping back to torment her when she least expected them.
When they sailed around it two days later, Cape Horn proved to be an anticlimax, a shapeless gray lump of an island barely visible in the pale gray mist. Still, the event itself was charged with meaning. To have sailed straight into another ocean! To be on the other side of the world, with nothing between you and China! Lily expected to hear trumpets playing, or a chorus of angels singing, but all she heard was the familiar slap of the Eurydice’s prow against the waves, the straining sails, and the crew chanting.
Three days passed in which it was impossible to tell the Pacific from the Atlantic. The ship’s routine was precisely the same, and only the wind turned fickle. The old sailors frowned, sensing trouble.
The ship plowed onward up the coast of Chile.
Lily sensed a new mood on board, a deepening tension, and especially in the crew, but there seemed nothing to be done about it. She minded her business as ever, sewed, read, talked some to Sophie, and went early to bed.
She woke in a mad dream of violence. The world in her dream had gone all topsy-turvy, shaking and tumbling and taking great unexpected leaps. It sounded the way Lily had always imagined a war must sound, with loud crashing noises, shouting, alarms. Something bumped violently against her head in the dark cabin. God in heaven, we’ve been invaded by pirates, they’ll kill us and rape us and this is the end! Not knowing whether to scream or to pray, Lily started to do both, and failed. The cabin took another violent lurch, and she was thrown hard against the wall. Then she reached out and gripped the oaken frame of her bunk. It wasn’t a dream, then. In dreams, your head didn’t throb like this, from where you’d bumped it. She clutched at the sides of her bunk for dear life, and listened, and wondered what to do next. And she thought of Fergy, and Fergy’s ship going down in a storm in these very waters, off the coast of Chile. Maybe the albatross was Fergy’s soul, doomed to roam the skies forever, until he found his sister and brought her home to rest, in a grave made of coral and sand and walled with water.