Tales of the New World: Stories

by Sabina Murray

  Let us all say a prayer for Pope Paul the Sixth, with Jesus in heaven, and then—a month later—say a prayer for Pope John Paul the First, with Jesus in heaven. Then let us all say a prayer for Pope John Paul the Second, so that he lives longer.

  Let us all say a prayer for Elvis, and then get into a fight on the playground when Phillip Murphy says he died with his head in the toilet.

  Let us say a prayer, secretly, for Skylab, which crashed out in the desert. We’re not supposed to pray for things [no souls], but we do anyway because there’s something sad about the twisted bits of metal, the melted wires, the smashed glass. And we know that Skylab must have felt lonely out there in space, taking pictures for us, and we ought to have found a way to bring it home.

  Pray for all of this because God is listening, and if he hears you praying, he’ll know to protect you from being crushed when Skylab smacks into the desert, to protect you from Idi Amin’s crocodiles and lions, and Pol Pot’s Year Zero. From Jim Jones and his monkeys and religion, guns and Guyana, from his paradise, where everyone sleeps facedown and never wakes up.

  Jim Jones is dead, shot with a gun [suicide?], but let’s not pray for him. At night you’ll imagine he escaped into the jungle, wonder if he’s lurking in that dark corner beside the wardrobe, waiting quietly with his drink bottle filled with Kool-Aid. You’ll dream of a monkey wandering into Jonestown, seeing it all so still. The monkey will trot across the bodies, pulling at belt buckles and other shiny things. The monkey will pull off buttons, put them in his mouth, and spit them out. The monkey will go through the pockets of the people who lie so still, looking for something [what?], but find them all—every one—empty.

  The Solace of Monsters

  Captain Zimri Coffin retired to his cabin with a book, as was his habit. His wife chose his reading material. He did not have the time to buy books when in port. As soon as he set foot on solid ground, he was already preparing to leave, his head occupied with whaleboats, harpoons, hardtack, barrels, whatever was needed for the yearlong or maybe longer voyage. His wife had started him on the novels. She was afraid he’d get lonely at sea, or worse, become overly familiar with the men, some of whom were Wampanoag, barely civilized, and capable of such intimidating silence that she (not justified, but passionate) thought they lived in some animated state between death and life. How this fit in with her views on God and heaven was unclear, but as Coffin burrowed into this new book, Frankenstein, he was beginning to see where she came up with such ideas.

  “Silly woman,” he thought. But he was fond of her. And the reading kept her alive in more than memory. He was not so much reading as reliving that eight-hour period when his wife had only risen from her rocker to give orders to the maid for his dinner. He could almost smell her in the pages.

  Coffin was about twenty pages into the first of the three volumes—the point at which Captain Walton picks up Dr. Frankenstein, who is in dreadful shape, emaciated, half-frozen, gripped by a fever—when he thought he should turn in. The clock showed it to be nearing eleven and his lantern was low on oil, a good time to quit, but maybe he could go another ten pages without wasting himself for the next day’s tasks. The water was slapping on the side of the Dauphin and she was at such a gentle roll—almost snoring herself—that it was not difficult to believe the Dauphin an exploring vessel, that he was not Zimri Coffin, but rather Captain Walton. That he was not involved in the dirty, unromantic task of boiling whales down to machine oil, but rather deep in the North Sea in pursuit of that somehow stationary yet elusive North Pole.

  But out there lurked the monster.

  Ten pages later, Coffin heard a beastly moan, and for a moment forgot altogether that he was floating in the warm Pacific, rather than bound in by ice in the frigid waters of the north. He moved the book from his face and stilled his breath. Yes. There was the moaning again, a ghastly, beastly moaning. After what seemed a long time, he put the book down and, picking up his pistol, got up from the bed. His door swung open silently.

  On deck the ropes were creaking in the mainstays and the whaleboats, hoisted high, were swinging slightly as the boat rocked. A large, almost full moon lit the boards of the deck and a million stars peppered the sky. Captain Coffin stopped. No men were about, which was good, because no doubt he presented a ridiculous figure. He was wearing his slippers. Even the best-kept deck produced an occasional splinter, he reassured himself, and he did not have the toughened soles of the men, who went without shoes, springing up and down the rigging like monkeys, gripping with their toes. But there again was that beastly moaning.

  “Uhhagh. Uhhagh,” the creature moaned.

  Captain Coffin slowly made his way around the main mast. There was the monster, huge and hulking, crouching over the side of the deck.

  “Uhhagh. Uhhagh,” it moaned again.

  The captain squeezed his pistol. Then he let it hang by his side again. This was no Frankenstein. This was Asnonkeets, one of the Wampanoag, who was very large but hardly a monster.

  “Asnonkeets, what are you doing about at this time of night?” said the captain, stepping out from the shadows.

  “Sir?” said the man, and he spun around. “I’m feeling under the weather.”

  Coffin smelled the strong odor of rum.

  “This behavior cannot be tolerated.”

  Asnonkeets lowered his eyes, and despite his extreme illness and usual expressionless gaze, there was the start of a smile. The Indian had noticed the slippers.

  “All right. Belowdecks, now,” said Coffin.

  “But sir, I am very ill.”

  “I suppose no one wants you belowdecks.”

  The Indian pulled himself to full height, not to be threatening but rather as a gesture of politeness. “Am I to be sanctioned, sir?”

  Coffin considered this. “No, but keep it down. I know you’re unwell, but isn’t there a way to . . . relieve yourself without such moaning? It’s keeping me awake.”

  Asnonkeets nodded.

  “I need you at your best. Let’s just say that this is a warning.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  As Coffin returned to his cabin, he pondered the fact that he could have cut Asnonkeets’s rations or even had him whipped, but he’d been so grateful that he was the monster that he actually felt more disposed to toss him some beef, in with the usual salt horse. In this generous mood—half grateful that Asnonkeets was still on the deck upchucking over the port bow, keeping watch—Captain Coffin finally fell asleep.

  The following morning dawned bright and clear. Captain Coffin stepped out of his cabin cheered by the warm sun, although his dreams had been dark—Asnonkeets stitched over, yellow-eyed, moaning from the ice that trapped the Dauphin. Ice in the Pacific. He chuckled to himself. And there was Asnonkeets, clearly solid Wampanoag, no composite of dead criminals here, joking with the other men. He looked sheepishly at the captain, smiling almost warmly, and the men also seemed to look at him with a certain amount of approval, no doubt because of his generosity with the Indian. Coffin was feeling fatherly today, his heart full of goodwill, his emotions all jumbled due to the tortures of the previous evening. He walked confidently to the railing and swung his telescope to the horizon, optimistic that today (no worrying ice floes in the Pacific) whales would break that fine line, that their oily shadows would spoil the surface of the water. The first mate, Owen MacDonald, was busily investigating the integrity of the prow of one of the whaleboats, which looked a little soft. He had his pocket knife dug into the timber and twisted it.

  “Captain, it will do until we reach Valparaiso.”

  Again, good news.

  At the head of the mainmast, John Squibb, another Wampanoag, was roosted like an eagle. He had fine eyes and if there were whales he would sight them long before any of the other men.

  Coffin turned to MacDonald. “What’s our location?”

  And the first mate rattled back the latitudes and longitudes, minutes and degrees, and it was all acceptable and as it should be.


  Coffin looked back up the mainmast. John Squibb had unfolded himself and was stretched with his hand shielding his eyes from the sun. Coffin’s heart beat in his chest and he waited—breath held—for the call “there she blows.” But none came. Maybe it was another ship. “What have you got there, John Squibb?”

  “Whaleboat, sir.”

  A tiny vessel, good only for chasing fish, in the middle of the ocean. Coffin went to the railing and raised his telescope. It was a whaleboat, and he thought he could make out the brushy tops of two heads just over its sides.

  “All right,” said Coffin, “let’s go pick them up.”

  Shipwreck victims were not uncommon. Some boats were destined to sink. Some ships were just doomed. Large waves, like improvident hands of God, slammed them into splinters in the most inconvenient locations, like this, the Pacific, where one could only hope for flying fish to offer themselves, leaping into the boat, or for a shipmate to expire, the blood still running in his veins. And there was always the drawing of lots. Better to be trapped in the ice where seals and bears sometimes made an appearance. Coffin stuffed his pipe full and puffed heartily as he waited for his ship to draw alongside the small vessel.

  But Coffin was not prepared for what he saw there. The two men were dead, and their boat was no stab at life, but more of a floating coffin. Scattered bones covered its planking. Captain Coffin looked carefully at the desiccated corpses—ulcered, leathery skin wrapped around their skeletons, the clothing rotted off their bodies, bleached by the sun and salt. His heart was chilled. How could one be frightened of monsters when men offered up such images of horror?

  The boat rocked on the waves, at a knock and knock against the ship’s keel.

  The men of the Dauphin waited for their captain to give them some direction; they waited on his words, but he was dumbstruck.

  “Ah,” he said. His eyes were moist and he was deeply moved with pity. “We shall give them a Christian burial.”

  Asnonkeets, who was at Coffin’s side, raised an eyebrow, then looked back at the boat. “Sir, not meaning to be disrespectful, but those men are alive.”

  “They are?” Coffin looked back into the boat and sure enough, awakened by the sounds of human speech, the men were slowly blinking, shivering to life. “It is a miracle! Praise merciful God!”

  At first, Coffin didn’t notice that the men did not share his enthusiasm. Seeing two shriveled specters afloat in an ossuary did not deepen their faith in this so-called “merciful God.” Was this not a whaleboat? Was this fate not a frightening possibility? Were these starved men not the crew of the Dauphin in a dark mirror? But soon Asnonkeets and Garby—another harpooner—were descending on ropes like benevolent spiders, bringing up the survivors with startling tenderness, whispering gently, “You are alive. You are saved.”

  Coffin called the cook and demanded that he start a pudding of tapioca, because this was gentle food and all the rescued men could handle.

  “What of the boat?” asked MacDonald.

  “We’ll tow it,” said the captain. “We can sell it when we reach Valparaiso. Once the bones are out, someone might want it and we can start a charitable fund for these good men.”

  Coffin supervised the bathing of the castaways, who turned out to be none other than Captain George Pollard and Charles Ramsdell of the Essex out of Nantucket. Somewhere, out there in the blue wash of sea, was another boat with the first mate, Owen Chase, and a few other men. A third boat was also making its way to Chile, but they had lost sight of that one long ago. On an island deep to the west, three other sailors had elected to cast their lot (or decided to avoid casting their lot) trying to eke out a life on the occasional albatross egg. Pollard was eager to tell his tale, but Coffin had been firm. Rest first, then maybe later, if Pollard was up to it, he would join Coffin in his cabin, where he could tell of his ordeal.

  At about five o’clock that afternoon, another ship was sighted, the Diana. Coffin knew the captain, Aaron Paddack, and it was soon arranged for Paddack to come aboard for dinner.

  Coffin met Paddack’s boat as it pulled up to the side of the Dauphin. “Coffin, you look good!” Paddack called as the ladder rattled down the Dauphin’s side. “And I’m done, on my way home with the hold filled to the brim. So I have a gift for you.” Paddack swung his long legs over the railing and handed Coffin a cloth bag. “Tobacco, and smell it.”

  “How kind,” said Coffin. He inhaled the contents of the bag. “Damp and sweet. And you look well. How I wish I was heading home.” But really, he wished nothing of the sort. “Come and have a drink with me,” he said. And after a hearty handshake, they made their way to the captain’s cabin.

  Coffin wasted no time telling Paddack about the men of Essex. “If Captain Pollard’s up to it, he’ll join us shortly. But I must say, he presents a frightful appearance. Quite wasted, and I’m not sure, but verging on the mad.”

  “What happened to the Essex?”

  “He says a whale sank it. Smashed into the boat and crumpled the timbers. I’ve never heard anything like it, but he swears it happened, as does the other man. They’ve been afloat for three months, have navigated over three thousand miles.”

  “And how have they survived?”

  “Their boat was filled with bones. We had to pry them out of their hands. When we gave them clean clothes, we found their pockets filled with fingers cleaned of all the meat. And the ribs, they were sucking, to get the marrow out. When we took these bones away, the men started sobbing, begged us to give them back their companions. They said we’d no right to take their friends away.”

  The steward set some pork on the table and the captains grew still.

  “How are our guests faring?” asked Captain Coffin.

  “Captain Pollard is eager to join you, sir.”

  “Well,” said Coffin, and he stood up. He went to his chest and pulled out a clean shirt and a pair of trousers. “Give him these. I’m sure he’ll feel more of a man when he’s dressed for dinner.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the steward. “Anything else?”

  “Have the cook send up another bowl of the tapioca.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And give the men this,” said the captain, “to be shared.” It was a bag of his old, inferior tobacco that he no longer needed.

  “Thank you, thank you very much, sir. From all of us.”

  After the steward was gone, Captain Paddack cast a bemused look at Coffin. “You are soft on your men.”

  “Yes, I am. And it’s probably stupid, but I know no other way.”

  Captain Paddack picked up the volume of Frankenstein, which was on the shelf at his elbow. “What is this?”

  “A frightening book. Terrible to read, especially at sea.” Coffin smiled. “You don’t read novels, I assume.”

  “Novels? My wife does.”

  “How do you pass your evenings?”

  “I have my ship’s log and the navigation.” Captain Paddack shrugged. “I must sleep better than you because I feel I have no time to spare.”

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Come in,” called Coffin, in a merry voice.

  “Sir,” said the steward, “I have Captain Pollard.”

  Captain Pollard held on to the steward’s elbow, shuffling across the floor painfully, as if his bones were rubbing on each other, and collapsed into the chair to Coffin’s right. Coffin’s clothes were large on him, and Pollard folded up so much when he sat that his head was no higher than that of a boy. He had settled into that chair like a gull into its nest and his eyes held that same disquieting glitter. But as he looked first to Coffin’s face and then to Paddack’s, his expression softened into one of complete contentment.

  “Good of you to join us,” said Captain Paddack. He smiled at Pollard, but the shock was clear on his face.

  “Yes, and I fear too good,” added Coffin. “If you are not up to this, I assure you I will not be insulted.”

  “To sit in a chair at this good table,�
�� whispered Pollard, “is of great comfort to me, who have suffered much.”

  Coffin brought his chair up alongside Pollard’s and helped him sip some water. “There’s a good man,” he said. There was another knock on the door. “What now?” called Coffin.

  “Captain Pollard’s tapioca, sir,” said the steward.

  “Bring it in,” said Coffin. “Give it to me.”

  Coffin took the bowl and spooned a small amount into Pollard’s mouth, which Pollard worked over like an infant.

  “So,” said Paddack, a forkful of pork by his mouth, “I hear your ship was stove in by a whale.”

  “That is true,” said Pollard.

  “Remarkable,” said Paddack. “Must have been a big whale.”

  “A monster,” whispered Pollard. “Rammed our ship. He came back and made sure that we sank, and most of us still in the herd, hunting among the cows. The sea was red and bubbling with blood. Owen Chase, my first mate, was still aboard repairing one of the whaleboats. He saw the monster—a bull ten leagues in length—but was scared to harpoon it, scared it would shatter the rudder in its anger.” Captain Pollard raised his two wiry arms, which cast a long shadow on the wall behind Paddack’s head. He inhaled a raspy breath and let his arms sink, folding them back into his lap. “Then it dove. The Essex sank quickly.”

  “Right,” said Paddack. “That’s quite a story.”

  “My poor man,” added Coffin. “And what a miracle of good navigation and a merciful God have delivered you.”

  “Hang on,” said Paddack, “why didn’t you head for the Tahitian islands? They’re a good deal closer than Chile.”

  “We’d heard,” whispered Pollard, “that there are cannibals there. We feared . . .”

  And then Pollard, mid-sentence, fell asleep.

  “He’ll come to in a minute,” said Coffin. “He’s been doing this all day, just a part of recovery.”