by Jeffrey Ford
Dedication
For the entire crew—
Lynn, Jack, Brianna, Derek, Finn, Nellie, Peps
And all the goddamn cats
Epigraph
Americans so dearly love to be fooled.
—Charles Baudelaire
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
Notes in 2s
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Jeffrey Ford
Copyright
About the Publisher
1
November 1853, a blustery night somewhere in the middle of a long week. The infernal cuckoo clock in the offices of the Gorgon’s Mirror, the premiere five-cent illustrated rag of hokum in the great city of Manhattan, sounded. Every hour on the hour a skeleton, scythe in hand, pursued a hapless sinner out one door and round the baroque mechanism to another all the while that blasted bird chirped away. I was trying to get warm, blowing into my cupped hands and stretching them out toward the candle’s glow. I’d been out for a stroll, a dozen oysters, and a tankard, hoping it would spark my imagination.
Garrick, my editor, had warned before he’d left at sundown that I’d better come up with some choice nugget of humbug for the morrow’s run or I’d feel the full blast of his wrath. The old man, like his publication, was more hot air than actual horror, but still I hated to disappoint him. He was like a father to me, or at least to my flights of fancy. “Harrow,” he’d say. “You might be the finest confabulator on this godforsaken island.” Whereas another might have taken the term to mean liar, I understood it to be an appellation of artistic prowess.
That late night, though, I was neither. My mind was as blank as the page in front of me. Rufus Sharde, my competitor at the Cockaigne Times, with whom I usually had drinks at Fraunce’s Tavern on Monday evenings, once told that he’d overheard P. T. Barnum, the humbug’s humbug, say, in relation to one of his critics, that there was only so much imagination in a given individual and when it was gone that person was bereft of the ability to wonder. To think, after I’d come up with the “Hell’s Gate Mermaid,” “The Headless Strangler of Battery Park,” “Colonel Maranda’s Live Burial,” “The Congo Homunculus,” igniting imaginations from Slate Street to Forty-Second and beyond, frightening the weak of heart and head, that I was now as empty as a politician’s promise. The thought of it drew a shiver.
Just as despair was sinking its claws into me, there was a great bang, the flinging wide of the door to the street, which was down a short set of steps to my left. The wind rushed up from outside, rifling the papers on the office desks, guttering the weak flame in the fireplace, and extinguishing my candle. I heard the door slam shut as I groped for matches. There came a heavy tread upon the stairway, every other as sharp and as distinctive as a hammer blow. I’m afraid I’m only courageous in the articles I pen, and so my hands shook badly as I relit the wick and spun to encounter the intruder.
He stood in the dim light of the entranceway. His beard, his glare, his stillness put me off. He exuded a sense of tension, a spring about to snap, and stared at me imperiously as if I had intruded upon him. I could tell from his peacoat and his broadfall breeches that he was a man of the sea. Noting his silk top hat and overall countenance—the stern glare of one who seemed used to giving orders—I surmised he was more than a common sailor. He had his seabag over his shoulder and a boarding ax gripped in his right hand. Only when he shifted position and tapped the floor did I notice that his left pant leg had been cut back and the appendage had been replaced with an artificial limb made of what appeared to be whalebone. I controlled my fear and, as nonchalantly as possible, said, “Can I help you?”
He continued to stare.
“Are you aware that you’ve come to the offices of the Gorgon’s Mirror?” I asked.
He stepped closer. “Yes,” he said in a low voice. “I seek a fellow by the name of Ishmael.”
“Is this fellow a friend?” I asked.
“A colleague of the sea. We served upon the same ship.”
“If I may ask, why are you looking for him?”
“Sir, don’t play games with me. Do you know him or don’t you? I was told he works here.”
“No need to be obstreperous,” I said, aiming to defuse him with my writerly vocabulary. “Pull up a chair there.” I pointed to the seat behind him at the head illustrator’s desk. “You look tired, sir, as if you could use a sit-down.”
“Aye,” he said. “That I could. I come in this morning from Nantucket to South Street, and I’ve been wandering far and wide looking for this place.” The weary sailor half sat, half fell into the chair. When he was settled, he dropped his bag on the floor and removed his hat to place it in his lap along with that vicious-looking ax.
“Ishmael, you say. Yes, he worked here for a spell. An ambitious fellow.”
“But he works here no longer?”
“He moved on at the end of the summer, just a couple of months ago, and I’m afraid I don’t know where.”
“An old acquaintance in Nantucket said he’d read a book written by Ishmael concerning a certain whaling voyage.”
“That’s correct,” I said. “I read it here when it was merely a manuscript.”
“You read it?” said the sailor. “Can you tell me, does it deal with a white whale perchance? Moby Dick?”
“Yes,” I said, and he sat forward.
“And do you remember the captain of that voyage . . . as far as he tells it in his book?”
“Yes,” I said. “A frightful fellow. A mad Quaker from Nantucket. As I recall, he was missing a . . .” As my tongue was forming the word limb I looked down and beheld my visitor’s whalebone contrivance.
He stared at me. “What becomes of that captain in the book?”
I swallowed hard. “He is killed.”
“Aye,” he said.
There were a few beats of silence. “You’re Ahab?”
“I am.”
“But you died.”
“Do you not know that the world and the book are separate voyages?”
I realized I’d been clutching the pen in my hand throughout our entire transaction. I set it in the inkwell and said, “In truth, I might understand it better than you think.”
Ahab subtly flinched at something unseen.
“Then you were not dragged overboard and into the depths?” I asked.
“I was. But my neck was miraculously unbroken, and when I hit the water, the noose slipped up over my head. I was taken down, but not like a fish on a line. It was the draft of the sounding leviathan that drew me. I spun like a leaf in the wind, desperate for breath, and the dark was full of stars.”
“And yet here you are,” I said.
“The creature turned from its course, lunged for the surface, and swallowed me whole. The surge tumbled me over its undulating tongue, the size of five beds. My last thought before blacking out was that I should be emulsified in one of the stomachs of Moby Dick and shat out from pole to pole. Instead God’s monster, no doubt reviled by
the taste of grievous sin, disgorged me onto the rolling surface of the Pacific.”
A character from a book come to life, a regular Jonah, I thought as I eyed him. It was easy enough to be frightened by his aspect, but I was beginning to feel a sense of pity what with his abject expression—the sad fate of a character rent free from his pages. If I remembered Ishmael’s words, this fellow had been to college as well as to sea.
“I’ve heard that in Ishmael’s book, my ship, my crew, myself, all are turned flukes-up and sent to Davy Jones.”
“The white whale was the culprit,” I said.
“Moby Dick,” he said and spat on the floor. He muttered something to himself and turned his gaze from me as if embarrassed for not having died with his crew.
“And what would you have with Ishmael?”
“I want him to know he’s not the sole survivor. He made of me in words a walking ghost.”
“You came to Manhattan for that? The book was not well received by the reading public and sold woefully. A few handfuls of people may have seen it.”
He gazed down at the floor and said, “I’m also here to find my wife and boy.”
“Your wife and boy?” I said. “Do you have an address?”
He shook his head and I could feel his weariness. “It took years to heal and find my way back to Nantucket. When I arrived, I learned that she’d taken the child and come to Manhattan to live with her aunt. The next day, I booked passage here.”
“She believes you dead?”
“She’d heard of Ishmael’s version of our voyage. He didn’t know I’d lived nor did I, he, until I returned. He was picked up by the Rachel. I glimpsed their sails in the distance, but they didn’t see me in the water waving or hear me crying out.”
“How were you rescued?”
“We were closer to the equator than Ishmael writes in the book. He had us much farther north. I was dragged nearly lifeless from the sea by a pair of native fishermen in a canoe off the coast of the Gilbert Islands, northwest of the Marquesas. Supposedly, there are quite a few discrepancies in those pages. In it, he lies about my age. I’m old enough but not that old. I think the only thing in the blasted tome that isn’t at least tinged with fiction is his description of my madness.”
Ahab put his hat on and lifted his bag. “I’ll be on my way. I seek lodging. Thanks to you for your time.”
I found it hard to believe, but I didn’t want him to go. It wasn’t that I thought him a splendid interlocutor. He was dreadful to look at and his voice was a croaking in the wilderness. What struck me was his story and what I could do with it. There was more fodder in the truth of his tale for a feast of bunkum than you could shake a stick at. In the morning I’d catch Garrick’s ear and make my case that the real biography of Captain Ahab could boost sales of the Gorgon’s Mirror. The fantastic, the forlorn, the frightening, and the philosophical. This was a “walking ghost” we could harness.
Before he turned to the stairs, I said, “You have no clue at all as to where to find your family?”
“No, except that the street is named after a fruit.” No sooner were the words out of his mouth than the muscles of his face constricted into a dark oval and he whimpered.
I carefully approached, putting my hand on his shoulder. “Are you ill, sir?” I inquired.
“No. It’s only that I’ve forgotten how to laugh.”
“You seem exhausted, Ahab. We have an old fainting couch in the back storeroom beyond the presses. The thing’s as big as a whale boat. I’ve slept upon it many a night. Quite comfortable. Besides, it’s far too late to look for lodging. The world is asleep. Come. No charge. I’ll help you search for your wife tomorrow.”
“And my boy,” he said. I took him by the arm, relieved him of his boarding ax and bag, and led him through the various rooms of the Gorgon’s Mirror. He followed slowly, and I felt as if I were dragging him. When he was finally situated on the couch, he closed his eyes and instantly fell asleep.
The poor fellow, I thought as I made my way back to my desk. There, I took up my pen, ready to exploit his misadventures. Garrick had better scrape together a raise for me, I told myself. I struck with my harpoon, and the ink began to flow.
2
I woke to the sound of the street door banging open. My head was on the desk, the pen in hand, and I was staring at a burned-down nub of a candle. I realized it was morning, and it was Garrick on the stairs. He was always the first one to work. I sat up in time to see him walk past me to his office. Through the plateglass window that looked out on the writers’ room, I could see him, like a fish in a bowl. I wasn’t sure if he knew I was in or not. There had been so many mornings when he’d found me right where I was, with my cheek against the smooth wood of the desk and the pen between my fingers.
I liked to say that Garrick was a farmer of a publisher in the penny press. Up and at it before dawn, he was milking stories for all they were worth, ploughing through the truth, harvesting a rich crop of whim-wham. He was no intellectual, but he was intelligent. He was a man of erratic ethics, save the work ethic. He toiled from sunup to sundown, and then he went home and spent the evening, a tumbler of gin beside him, in silent communion with his wizened wife.
My view of him was obliterated by the cloud from his first cigar of the day. I stood, straightened my shirt and jacket, made a feeble attempt at taming my hair, and did something to my bow tie. I took up my copy and went to make a proposal. Standing silently for a half minute at Garrick’s door, I waited to be recognized. He was marking something in his ledger, so I dared not disturb him. Finally, he finished, shut the book, and without looking up at me, said, “Harrow, come in.” I stepped into the swirling smoke. “Have a seat,” he said, and I took the chair across the desk from him. “What have you there?”
“A piece for the day’s run, sir.”
“Good, then I won’t have to let you go,” he said and laughed. When he caught his breath, he squinted and became serious. “I don’t want to hear anything more from the great George Harrow about the well having run dry.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What wonder have you for the presses?”
“I must explain, sir,” I said, and then I did, speaking quickly and clearly so that he not fall into boredom. Garrick smoked his cigar with the contemplative air of a philosopher. When I got to the part in my narrative where I mentioned Ahab’s whalebone leg, he grunted and nodded. I took that as encouragement and sailed on with my pitch. Eventually, he held up his hand to silence me and I sputtered out.
“Am I getting here, the story of a sea captain returned from the dead or a character that steps forth from the pages of a book? Either one is fairly cliché, although I’ll use your copy out of necessity. You’d better start dreaming deeper, George Harrow,” he said.
“I have,” I told him. “Say I follow this Ahab fellow around Manhattan for a few days while he searches for his wife and boy and tracks down the man who killed him with words. I could assist him in his search, and for that perhaps he will tell me snippets of his adventures on the journey back from death. I’ll follow him and report, of course, stretching the truth and teasing actuality when necessary. It can be a serial. And we can sell the fact that we’re trying to help the poor sot as we exploit him. Here’s the first installment.” I reached forward and set the pages on his desk.
Garrick smiled. He stubbed out his cigar, thank God, and leaned his bulk back in the chair. “Harrow, you’re skating between the escapist and the esoteric. Thin ice, indeed.”
“I tell you this fellow’s a gold mine,” I said. “We could outsell the Police Gazette with this series.”
“Don’t talk nonsense. The sound of it frightens me when I’m about to make a bold decision.”
“Very good, sir. Just think, the pathos of the peculiar.”
“And what might you call this series?” he asked.
“The Walking Ghost.”
With that, I heard the stub of Ahab’s leg hammer the floor in the doorway
behind me. I saw in my publisher’s eyes just a moment of hesitation, and then he was up, out of his chair, and ushering the captain into the room. That’s when I knew my proposal had won the day. Garrick quizzed Ahab on his story, and seeming satisfied that I hadn’t lied, he said, “Ahab, we here at the Mirror are prepared to help you locate your wife and son.”
The captain squinted. “I work alone. I’ve no money for the services of others.”
“No, no,” said Garrick, “I intend to bankroll the expedition. How badly do you long to see your family?”
Ahab shook his head as if he didn’t understand the question.
“Give us three weeks. In three weeks we will find your wife and son. My associate, here, Mr. George Harrow, will accompany you every leg of the journey. I will cover the cost of hotels, meals, and travel. Please, will you agree to allow us to be of assistance?”
“I work alone.”
Garrick leaned across his desk and said in a low voice, “Mr. Ahab, you don’t know what you’re facing in this city. Roughly five hundred thousand people. I have no doubt you’re a resourceful man, but your hunt could take years without a guide. You’re about to dive deep into the maw of Leviathan.”
Ahab gave a nearly imperceptible nod, and that’s all Garrick required. He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a clean white sheet of paper. Lifting his pen, he gave it a flourish and drew a line in the bottom right-hand corner. Next to the line, he wrote a big X and slid the page to Ahab. He then handed the captain the pen and sat back.
“Go ahead and sign, sir. We’ll fill in the details later.”
I knew the details were the exclusive rights to the seaman’s story. Ahab hesitated but within moments he signed. That page was swept off the desk and stowed in the top drawer. My publisher swiveled round in his chair and took a small chest from the shelf behind him. He came round again and dropped it on the desk. With a key attached to his watch fob, he opened the lock and lifted the lid with both hands. Garrick reached in and drew out three bills bearing a beehive design.
“Here’s nine dollars,” he said and handed the money across to me. “That should be enough to keep you gentlemen alive for a few days while you search.” He turned to face me. “Spare no expense,” he said and winked.
