Chapter 5

The rectangle of the hut's opening is still the black of pure night. He is surprised that his mind is not picking over the Typees' battle nor their cannibal banquet but of an incident on the Acushnet instead. Below deck hunting for a keg of pennynails the manifest says is in store. The oil lamp burns out just as Melvill hears movement outside the door; then its opening to blackness and invisible Melvill within. He smells Taggart, the chiefmate, his odd Calcutta scent he puts on from a bottle. A voice begins, another's, but Taggart silences him: "Hush girlie, it can be bad for ya." The door shutting, not loudly like Melvill anticipates, quiet, not even the old seabitten hinges squeaking, as if they too are fearful of Taggart, strange and meanspirited as a basketed cobra. Then there's the rustling of clothing in the dark, Taggart's heavy ornate beltbuckle, Spanish silver, hitting the floor with a thump. Then in a moment the suckling sounds, Melvill visualizing a grotesque infant at its mother's misshapen tit. And Taggart, that sound of animal satisfaction. Melvill breathing shallow and fast hoping that only his own ears can hear his respiration. He knows the other person is young Jones form New York City, knows it by means of a sense he cannot name. Minutes click by in the dark hold. Rats move somewhere among the crates and kegs, their claws tapping along like blindmen's sticks. Blindmen at home in the deepest black. Finally Taggart's silent eruption. All movement stops for a long moment, save the perpetual sway of the ship, the swing of the dark lamp on its nail, before the rustling of clothing again. "You be quiet as a dead man. You hear my words girlie: quiet as a dead man." When Taggart leaves first, Melvill wants to say something to Jones but adequate words will not form. He stays invisible until Jones too is gone, no doubt heavy and lost. In the middle of the greengray ocean.