6
Key West
October 1829
When my new husband and I ?rst arrived in Key West, I had really very little idea of what to expect. And Martin had said little on the voyage over that would enlighten me—though in truth, I had been so seasick, it’s unlikely I would have paid much attention.
It was midday when the Innocencia docked. The settlement was crowded, lively, and noisy, with people—mostly men—milling around in the port area. Vendors were hawking ?sh, turtle meat, birds’ eggs, conch, craw?sh, and crab. Negro women—freed slaves, I assumed—in colorful turbans and brightly ?owered dresses called out to passersby in lilting accents to buy their freshly picked tropical fruit. Cubans were selling strong coffee and lottery tickets. There were buskers playing ?ddles or drums, and jugglers tossing oranges in the air, all to cadge money from sailors.
Several ships stood in port, their tall masts swaying gently in the southeasterly breezes as their crews cleaned decks, worked on the complex webs of rigging, and wandered back and forth into the settlement. Chandleries, riggers’ shops, food stores, and sailmakers’ workshops were all ?lled with mates from the vessels, crowding in to buy supplies, fresh water, and necessary parts. Grog shops were doing a good business, too, as crew members ?ocked to them. And even though it was only midday, questionable-looking women strolled lazily near the ships.
There was much activity at the row of warehouses near the docks, where goods taken off vessels run aground were stored. There were pilots, sailors, and ships’ captains, along with well-dressed men in ?ne suits and tall silk hats congregating around O’Hara’s warehouse.
The agent’s bell sounded loudly over a brouhaha of chatter in various accents and languages.
“Looks like an auction’s about to start,” Martin shouted as we made our way through the throng crowding the dock. I glanced at his animated face; he was clearly happy to be home.
“Who are all these people?” I asked weakly. Still feeling poorly from the sea voyage, I leaned awkwardly on his arm.
“Let’s see … there’re a couple of insurance agents I recognize, some underwriters, a few wreckers … some folks that have come to buy cargo, and the auctioneer and his assistants, of course. The rest are maritime lawyers representing shipowners and captains.”
“Where do the buyers come from?”
“All over. Mostly Mobile, New Orleans, Charleston, even some from up New York City way. Key West, too. Our local people love auctions.” He stopped and waved. “There’s George and his wife. Remember Captain George Lee? You met him on that ?rst night in New Orleans.”
Martin found a mule driver with an ample wagon who would taxi us away from the dock. With great effort, he helped him load my many cases. Then Martin helped boost me up to a seat next to the driver, and he clambered onto the back of the wagon.
“I was expecting something more comfortable after such a long trip!” I exclaimed with dismay.
Martin simply laughed. “We don’t have far to go.”
We left, with the auctioneer’s booming voice ringing in our ears.
“Take us to Mallory’s … Coconut Grove,” Martin called out to our driver.
I assumed that this, at least, would be a comfortable hotel, in keeping with the fact that it was, after all, our honeymoon. I settled back, anticipating a picturesque drive. But looking around me at the village that was to be my home, I took in the passing dusty landscape with growing distaste.
After New Orleans—then third-largest city in the United States—I was thoroughly disheartened at my ?rst look at Key West, which counted only three hundred souls. What greeted me was a settlement of shabby wooden shacks weathered gray, with chickens and goats wandering from backyards onto the unpaved streets. Outdoor privies fouled the air. The roads, littered with malodorous garbage, were muddy and rutted. Sidewalks, when there were any, were wooden, and they offered no protection from mud splashes and feces stirred up by mules and horses.
Despite the steady trade winds, I found the climate hot and oppressive—especially bundled as I was in my petticoats, bonnet, pantalettes, and silk gloves. These were the latest style back home in New Orleans, but I could already feel how impractical they would be here in Key West.
The cart had not traveled but a block or two before it stopped.
“This is where we’ll be staying,” Martin said.
Frowning, I looked up. We were in front of a poorly maintained two-story frame building with cracked windows and a couple of shutters hanging off their hinges. A sign out front said ROOMS FOR RENT. ELLEN MALLORY, PROP.
“How long will we be staying here?” I asked, clutching Martin’s arm as he helped me alight from the cart.
He shrugged. “I haven’t decided yet, dearest. This’ll do us for now.”
“But … where did you live before?”
“Mostly, I camped out on ?shing boats. When I was in town, I stayed here.”
Inside, he introduced me to Mrs. Mallory, the kindly Irish Bahamian owner. “Come in, come in,” she said, greeting me warmly as she took the measure of my clothing and apprehensive expression. “Welcome to Key West.”
I looked around in vain for signs of slave help, but I saw only a young lad she called Stephen. It took some time for them to help Martin haul everything to our room. Once my large trunk was carried in, we could barely move. With a quick kiss and instructions for me to unpack, Martin left for the grog shops to gather with his friends and ask about securing work.
I looked around in disbelief. I’d been used to a civilized life at my grandparents’ elegant town home, with its spacious courtyard, large, well-appointed rooms, and servants to take care of everything. Being set down abruptly with orders to unpack in a shabby boardinghouse with peeling wallpaper, stale odors, and huge cockroaches did not sit well with me.
By evening, Martin had not yet returned, and I realized that my menses had appeared. I went to bed but slept badly. Our room was on the ground ?oor, so I did not feel protected. To catch a breeze off the Gulf, I opened the windows, inadvertently inviting an invasion of mosquitoes. Having neglected to secure the netting, I was repeatedly awakened by insects buzzing and biting my exposed face and neck. Whenever I dozed off, I was shocked awake by the shrill call of roosters, or the noisy scraping of a lively ?ddle in the street. Loud singing and laughter resounded from the grog shops; noisier still were the drunks passing by. Cigar smoke continually wafted through the windows. At one point, I heard someone urinate against the building, and I was subjected to the sizzling hiss of his stream, followed by a contented sigh.
The other residents of the house argued, cursed, and laughed loudly in the halls, stumbling into walls and doors in the dark as they staggered to their rooms.
That ?rst night of my new life, I hardly slept at all.
Martin often signed on for overnight ?shing trips, so the nocturnal horror of that ?rst night in Key West was played out for several more evenings that week. By the time he arrived home, I was usually asleep, and he slept in the late mornings after I was up. Afternoons, he spent at the port looking for work.
In his absence, I took my meals with the widowed Mrs. Mallory, who continually urged me to eat. “You’ll be looking like a wraith, Miss Emily. Try a little of this ?ne conch chowder.”
“I … I can’t get anything down.”
“Ah, ’tis the homesickness that’s got to you.” She smiled sympathetically. “It’ll get better when you get used to the place.”
I wasn’t sure I ever would. One night, after we’d been there about a week, the permanence of my situation descended on me like a falling brick. I started to panic, alone in our small room. So this, I thought to myself, is adventure! This was what I had thought I desired back in New Orleans? What a fool I had been!
Finally, Martin arrived early one night, smelling faintly of musky sweat, ?sh, and grog, and he slipped into bed beside me.
“No ?shing tonight, dearest,” he said tenderly, planting a tentative kiss on my cheek. “We’re in for a bit of weather.”
Then, moving closer, he kissed me delicately on the mouth. Despite his disheveled appearance and the smell of rum on his breath, I was grateful that at least I would not be alone that night. The feelings for him I remembered from before our marriage were suddenly reawakened as we lay there side by side.
“So, are you over it, then, Emily? The female thing?” he asked softly as his mouth continued to seek mine.
“Yes, it’s over,” I whispered, moving closer to him.
“So you’re up to it, then?”
“Yes,” I said, catching my breath in anticipation.
In reply, he moved his hand down, lifted my nightgown while he kissed me a few times. Then he came over and gently separated my legs. I suddenly felt a sharp pain shoot through me as he swiftly drove his body inside me, moving urgently. As I mu?ed a cry, a drunk began to fumble with his key in our lock. When it failed to open the door, he pounded on our door with his ?sts. Martin hurriedly ?nished off. Then he shouted at the door, “You’ve got the wrong room!” as he rolled off of me. I looked up at him, somewhat confused. My ?rst time making love—was that it?
Martin kissed my forehead quickly. “You’ll get used to doing it after a while, dearest,” he said, then yawned, gave me another kiss, turned over, and quickly fell asleep.
The drunk in the hallway cursed loudly and began to cough. I heard a dull metallic clang as he stumbled down the hall, hacking into a spittoon. I could hear a sailor singing a crude sea chantey in the distance as he strummed a banjo. A horse trotting by stirred up dust—a ?ne coral mist I could taste in my mouth—and with that, my misery was complete. Watching Martin sleep, I closed my eyes and released a silent ?ood of tears, which trickled down my cheeks.