Stillwell seemed to ignore the question as he reached for a bottle off the shelf.
“Not that often that I get to serve a Yankee tar. ’Ave some of our own grog, our own special recipe. This one ’ere is on the ’ouse.”
He poured the clear liquid into a cup and handed it to Morgan. Ely drank it down in one gulp. It had the flavor of musty gin with a bitter lemon taste. He didn’t like it much, but he asked for another anyway. Normally he would have shown more caution, but he convinced himself that he needed to get on the bartender’s good side. He saw the man beckon one of the girls over and whisper something into her ear.
“How do I find him?” Morgan asked again, his speech now strangely slurred.
“Well now, I was just talking to pretty Susana ’ere and she says yer friend Blackwood may be in the ’ouse. She can take you to ’im. You might be in luck.”
Morgan followed the young woman up a rickety staircase to a long hallway lit by tall brass candlesticks that emitted a thin thread of smoke rising to the ceiling. The old wooden boards groaned and creaked as he took the first steps down the narrow hallway. Susana beckoned him to follow her. She pointed to a room at the end of the smoky hallway and said he should go in there. Morgan hesitated before stepping inside, a chill penetrating his clothes, his head starting to swim, his vision beginning to blur. Something was happening to him. He shook his head and slapped his face, but he still felt like he was sailing into a North Sea fog. With little to no ventilation, the stagnant air hung heavy in the room. A petite young woman sat on the bed with a candle flame flickering on the table beside her. She was stark naked, motionless and voluptuous.
Morgan stood staring at her long neck, firm breasts, and the curve of her hips and suddenly found himself overcome with desire. He hesitated even as he felt the blood pounding in his ears. His heart beat rapidly. At that moment, this was everything he ever wanted, beckoning him. The room was misty now, much like a hazy dream. He had no sense if he had been in that room for hours or even days. She smiled at him as he walked toward her, his arms reaching out to touch her like long sinewy tree limbs. Suddenly he sensed more than saw a figure coming up from behind him, grabbing both of his arms, and then he felt an excruciating pain in his head. Through the dizzying blur, he could see the shape of a large man looming over him. A set of narrow eyes looked down at him from their setting of fleshy eyelids.
A man’s voice asked, “Do yer know this ’ere man, Bill?”
“Never seen ’im before,” a gruff voice replied.
And then everything went black.
The next thing he remembered he awoke in a damp cobblestone alleyway where the smell of urine and filth made him cough and wretch. Everything was a blur. His head throbbed with intense pain. His ribs felt like a wagon wheel had run over him. His eyelids only partially opened. His mind was filled with shapes, colors, and vivid dreams when suddenly a few faces and figures came into view. A young woman was dabbing his head with a wet cloth as she came in and out of focus. It was a different woman than the one in the room, he thought. She was so familiar. How did he know her? The dawn’s first light was streaking through her brown hair, and all he could think of was that she was like an angel with green eyes.
“’Elp me get ’im into the house,” she said.
Two arms pulled him up from behind as two other arms lifted his feet. The pain in his head was so sharp he wanted to scream. He felt like he would soon lose consciousness. He looked at the woman who was leaning over him. He suddenly recognized her. She was the pretty woman in the window.
“Whar ye want to put ’im, Laura?” asked someone.
“Just put ’im in my room fer now,” came the reply.
PART IV
Of all men, sailors shake the most hands, and wave the most hats. They are here and then they are there; ever shifting themselves, they shift among the shifting: and like rootless sea-weed, are tossed to and fro.
—Herman Melville, Redburn: His First Voyage
10
1829
Dressed in his pea jacket with his woolen hat pulled tightly over his head, Morgan stood by the helm in the grayish black light just before dawn. Watchful and mute, he rolled his first fresh cigar of the night. This had become a habit for him now that he was the first mate. He had given up chewing tobacco. A cigar helped calm and clear his mind, and he felt it gave him a look of authority. First ship’s officer, he thought to himself. It was hard for him to fathom that he was now in charge of the ship’s navigation, the setting of the sails, and the discipline of the crew. He was only twenty-three years old.
Cold and damp, he put his hands in his pockets. It looked like it might rain or sleet. The ship was heeled over sharply under a stiffening late November breeze. He could see the vague figures of the sailors on watch forward of the waist of the ship. He stepped to the windward side and looked down at the shadowy water, and then upward to check the sails, which were now barely visible. One of the topsails was flapping, probably on the foremast. He looked over at Ochoa, who was at the helm. Without a word spoken, the Spaniard corrected the ship’s course, and the protesting canvas quieted down. Morgan once again fell back into his thoughts.