often happier in the reflected light of great beauty. Simply to gaze upon her lifted one’s spirits. And gaze upon her they did. But they were careful never to speak to her. The captain required that when his wife speak at all, she speak only to him.
Arlis Browne sorely wanted Zylphia with him when he sailed, but it was well known that it was bad luck to have a woman on board, bad luck for many reasons, not the least of which was the large number of men. And he knew that he did not have the complete loyalty of his crew.
For his part, Arlis Browne had begun to resent the voyages. He was becoming a rich man now and still wanted to own a ship of his own. Yet any time spent away from his young wife filled him with jealousy and fear. What does she do in the long days when I am away? he wondered.
Every time he set out to sea, Arlis Browne gave strict instructions to the housekeeper to accompany his bride everywhere she went or, better yet, to see to her every need and make sure she went nowhere at all.
And so the girl became a prisoner in her own home. Night and day she could be seen on the widow’s walk. Everyone talked about it, assuming that she was gazing out to sea, looking for her husband. What a great love they have! everyone said. What a wonderful thing to have such longing for your husband!
But, alas, it wasn’t love at all. It was a terrifying panic. She knew she was trapped. The more she watched for his ship on the horizon, the more frightened she became.
Then one night a young sailor happened by. He had been at sea on the East Indiaman Friendship, which had just docked and was undergoing repairs. The sailor had not been back in the port of Salem for a few years but had stayed at the captain’s rooming house once before and, not having heard of the change, went back there to seek lodging. He knocked on the door, but there was no answer, for the housekeeper, having nothing much better to do, had recently taken to the drink and had as a result become a very heavy sleeper.
Frustrated by the lack of response from within, the young sailor pounded harder on the door. When finally he awakened the housekeeper, she was angry. She yelled at him to go away and leave her in peace. The sailor quickly apologized for the disturbance and went to sleep in the gardens of the gabled house across the street. He intended to awaken at first light and be gone before anyone was the wiser. He soon fell into an exhausted sleep.
But the moonlight was bright, and the sailor was awakened by its luminous glow. As he looked heaven-ward, he saw a vision, a beautiful girl on the neighboring widow’s walk. He told himself that this was surely a dream, for he had never before seen such beauty. Then, just as he was dismissing the vision as impossible, Zylphia turned to face him. Their eyes met. There was such a look of sadness on her face, and such longing, that he found himself weeping, though he hadn’t wept since he was a small child.
The sailor came back the next night, and the next, and every night she appeared to him, and every night she looked at him with the same longing. After many nights he realized that her sadness had vanished and that only the longing remained. And from the way her eyes gazed into his, he understood that the longing she felt was for him.
He realized then what he had to do. He had no fear of heights as some of the men did. In a storm he would be the first to climb the rigging and unfasten the sails. He was first in the crow’s nest to search for foreign land. And so he easily climbed to the lady who longed for him, making his way carefully up the side of the old house, using only the wisteria and ivy vines as foothold. When he reached the widow’s walk, she took his hand. He knew her immediately. He felt as if he had always known her.
They made love on the widow’s walk under the moon and the stars. He thought they would die in each other’s arms. Such perfection could happen only once in life, and he found himself wishing not to live past this moment. He wished with all his heart for a chill winter wind to blow from the east and freeze them together forever in place.
But the winds were those of summer, and not winds at all but gentle breezes. And every night, after the housekeeper had drunk herself to stupor, the young lovers met on the widow’s walk. He knew that he was risking his life for her. He knew he was risking hers as well, for surely one night they would be caught or at least spotted high up above the world by some passing ship or even by a neighboring family who happened by.
He had known with their first kiss that this was to be no happily-ever-after tale. He could taste the bitter with the sweet. But even as he knew their fate, he was powerless not to play his part. He could do nothing else.
When the captain returned from sea, he was quick to hear the stories. He had his spies everywhere, and there are always people who love to be the first to tell a person bad news. The town gossips never thought about the consequences, as gossips never do. If they had known that he would take his revenge on Zylphia, whom they loved deeply, they might not have been so impulsive in their tale telling. They might have stuffed stones into their mouths to keep from speaking, or sewn their lips shut with flaxen thread. But, alas, it was too late. The dreadful damage was done.
He immediately dismissed the housekeeper, calling her a useless drunkard and casting her into the street. Then he went upstairs to take vengeance on his betraying wife.
Yet when he saw her beauty, he could not bring himself to hurt her. Instead he fell down on his knees and begged her to love him. But she could not, and her innocent eyes were too unwily to hide what it would have been in her best interest to disguise. Enraged by her refusal, he chained her to the wall of the bedroom below the widow’s walk, and there he sat with her, brooding and scheming.
Evening came and went. And then another.
Each night the sailor climbed to the widow’s walk, and each night Zylphia was not there. With no food or water, she failed to thrive. And as she grew weaker, the captain, who was fueled best by jealousy and bile, grew stronger.
On the third day, the sailor did not return. He began to doubt that she had ever loved him. He began to doubt that true love existed at all. And his mind began to play tricks on him. Who was he to think he deserved such love? She was the wife of a captain-how could she love him?
“You see?” the captain said to her when the sailor did not appear again. “He does not love you enough. He does not love you as I do.”
The captain grabbed an ax and began to chop the widow’s walk from the house. When he was finished and his anger exhausted, he unlocked the chains and kissed the cuts and bruises on her wrists while he cried with despair at what he knew would leave scars and spoil her perfection. “Tell me you love me,” he said to her as he carried her to the bed. “Tell me you love me and I will forgive you all.”
But the girl could not. She could not lie.
Now bad times were coming to Salem. The British had placed a trade embargo on all American ships, hoping to stop their lucrative trade with France, with whom Britain was at war. Since Salem’s profound wealth was almost completely dependent on trade with foreign ports, the city had been severely damaged by the embargo, and the only ships sailing out of port these days were the newly commissioned privateers, which the British ships stood waiting just off the Atlantic coast to intercept.
Like so many others, the captain’s ship was at the wharf, with no sail date on the calendar. And though he did not want to leave his wife again, he had begun to hatch a plan that would end his troubles. But the plan involved going to sea. So when he was approached by Leander Cobb about a new venture, he was more than eager to hear the man’s proposition.
The Maleous was an old slave-trading ship that was as evil-looking as its name implied. After five years in dry dock, the ship still held the stench of death and decay.
Though there had been slave traders in Salem as in Boston, the Salem ships had long ago given up the practice. Most of the old slave ships had been destroyed, some set afire and cheered as they burned, but the Maleous was different. It was a huge vessel, and there had been plans to convert it to a merchant vessel, but that had never been done, many considering it cursed. For years it had sat empty and neglected at the far end of Cobb’s Wharf.
Old Leander Cobb was a practical man, who owned many ships. Not wanting to risk his other vessels in such dangerous times, he had begun to have the Maleous restored, removing the rough wooden sleeping decks where slaves had been forced to lie on their sides so that they occupied less than three square feet of space as cargo.
Aided by the embargo, which had stolen the livelihood of many a sailor, Cobb was fairly certain he could muster a crew for the Maleous, cursed or not. But there was only one captain whom he would consider for the job, and only one likely to take it. Cobb knew that Arlis Browne would come at a price. And with all trade
