Chapter III

It was roughly two years after the death of her little sister, and Morgan never really had any friends while growing up in the bustling town of Cruz Bay. By the time she was twelve, Henry had been promoted to a commodore, and had little time left for his family. Sometimes he would be away at sea, and it would be weeks on end before he would return home again. Morgan thought herself a little old for dolls and needlepoint, and often spent her time down at the docks, waiting for something that never came. She had her perch atop a fat stump of post that served no other purpose, and from there, she could watch the bustle of port and not be in the way.

This specific day was May the 2nd, and the weather was perfect. Not a cloud in the sky, and a sweet breeze blew in from the west. Morgan was sitting on her post, her shoes kicked off, and her long, soft brown hair in a loose bun. She didn't care whether or not she was proper in public; most people around the docks never paid much heed to her anyway.

"Good morning, Morgan, my sweets." Morgan's view of an immense freight ship carrying thousands of crates of fruit and rum was suddenly obstructed by a pair of grubby hands and a bouquet of weeds. Behind the grotesque corsage was a round, beaming face, with rosy cheeks and blue eyes.

"Good morning to you, Adrian." Morgan tried to peer around his pudgy teenage girth. Giving up, she left her seat and stood to Adrian's side, and watched the burly negroes toss the crates to one another as if they were filled with feathers.

"Happy thirteenth!" Adrian beamed, shoving his prized bouquet toward her once again.

"Adrian," Morgan turned to look up at him – he was a good seven inches taller than she. "Dear, my birthday isn't for another week."

"Oh." Feeling foolish, he lowered his weeds, and his gaze. Adrian thought for a moment, and then grinned stupidly at her. "So this makes me two years and two weeks older than you." Morgan rolled her eyes, but giggled, for his sake. "These are for you anyway." Adrian presented her yet again with the wild flowers.

"Why, thank you Adrian." Morgan smiled, reluctantly accepting the slightly wilted bundle of weeds. She quickly averted her attention to the freighter still at port. It was a magnificent looking ship, in Morgan's eyes; its sides were painted with fancy shades of yellow and ochre, and the majestic white sails spread way up into the sky. "Oh, isn't it fantastic?" Morgan asked rhetorically, holding her hands - and the flowers - over her heart.

The fifteen-year-old boy started to fidget, playing with his hands behind his back. His gaze averted to the dirt in which he began to dig the toe of his left shoe. He cleared his throat loudly, and Morgan looked expectantly at him.

"Well . . . " Adrian started, blushing slightly and motioning to the flowers, "Am I going to get a kiss now?" Morgan stared blankly at him for a moment, and he was blushing horribly. The poor boy was probably wishing he'd never asked. Morgan stood on her toes, and gave Adrian a reluctant peck on the cheek.

"Well, I must be going now, for late grows the hour." Morgan paused and glanced at the late afternoon sun. Adrian nodded in response. "Farewell, Adrian, and perhaps I will see you tomorrow." For a preteen, Morgan was well spoken and had very good manners. She curtsied, scooped up her shoes, and then skipped off in the general direction of her home, leaving Adrian to bask in his boyish bliss.

"Wash up. You're late for supper." Carla ordered Morgan as the girl closed the front door behind her.

"I'm sorry, mum, it won't happen again." Morgan apologized, making haste with the wash bin in the corner.

"That's what you said last time . . . " Carla sighed disappointedly, setting a cooked chicken amidst the other dishes at the long dining room table.

"Where's daddy?" Morgan asked, sliding herself into a seat at the table.

"He won't be home until very late tonight." Carla replied, setting out a steaming bowl of carrots and peas. Morgan grimaced; she hated peas.

"May I stay up and wait for him?" Morgan folded her hands in her lap as her mother withdrew to the kitchen. Carla returned with a bowl of rice in one hand, and serving utensils in the other. Setting them all upon the table, she wiped her hands on her apron, and looked upon her patient child.

"No." She sat across the table from Morgan. "Pass me your dish."

"Oh, mum, why not?" Morgan whined, passing her dish over. Carla carved the chicken and served Morgan a few pieces of white meat, and then heaped on the rice and steamed vegetables. Morgan scowled; oh, how she hated peas.

"Because it will be far past your bedtime. Even I will be asleep." Carla handed Morgan's plate back to her.

"Very well, then." Morgan grumbled, and waited with her hands in her lap until her mother served herself, and then said grace.

Dinner was unusually quiet that night, neither Morgan nor her mother seemed to have much to say. Morgan's peas migrated from one side of her plate to the other as the meal progressed, but never did they near her mouth.

"Adrian gave me flowers today, mum." Morgan lined the peas along the contour of her plate with the fork. Carla chuckled.

"That boy has an eye for you, does he?" She forked a piece of chicken into her mouth.

"Mum . . . he won't leave me alone! I dare say that he is a nice boy, but I can't sit and watch the ships without him in the way."

"Ah, well, he is a Leonhardt, after all . . . " Carla's voice trailed off, and she seemed to grow rigid at the name. "Eat your peas."

"I can't. I'm full." Morgan shoved her plate away and patted her belly.

"Too full for pie?"

"But mum . . . I don't like peas."

"Do you want pie?"

"Yes, mum."

"Eat your peas."

"I don't like peas. They're icky." Morgan started to whine.

"Eat. Your. Peas." Carla growled through clenched teeth, and Morgan knew there was no arguing – or bargaining - with her mother's native Caribbean wrath.

"Yes, mum." Morgan glowered, pulling her plate back and spearing one pea, forcefully shoveling it into her mouth, and chewing with a disgusted look on her face. Ten minutes later, Morgan finished her peas.

That night, after Morgan was tucked into bed, she waited and listened to the sound of her mother's footsteps. They lingered in the living room a moment, and then retired to the master bedroom. Morgan waited a few minutes, and then slipped out of her bed, and to the door of her room, peering out into the hallway. Everything was cast in a shadowy darkness.

Morgan crept out of her room, and to the door of her mother's, making sure the woman was asleep. Sure enough she was, and Morgan made her barefooted way quickly and silently to the front door. The latch clicked quietly as she closed the door behind her, and she ran breathlessly down the dirt road in the pale moonlight.

She knew she would be in trouble if she was found out, so Morgan hid behind some shadowed crates by the dock. A few well-dressed men stood around, waiting for something. After what seemed like forever and a day, a huge ship came forth from the dark ocean, and loomed over the port.

"Daddy!" Morgan gasped happily, as the ship was docked, and her father was the first one to emerge.

"Commodore Edwards! Welcome home!" A short, stout man with a white wig and moustache took Henry's hand firmly and shook it.

"Paul, please, no formalities needed. We're all friends here." Henry let out a hearty chuckle, and patted the man on the shoulder.

"Listen, Henry, I've been meaning to talk to you about something." The cheerfulness slowly faded from Paul's rosy cheeks, although the stern attitude didn't reflect as much in his voice. As the remainder of the docked ship's crew disbanded and went their separate ways, Paul strolled along with Henry. They stopped dangerously close to Morgan's hiding spot. She held her breath.

"So, what is it, chap?" Henry shoved his hands in his pockets.

"I know about your wife." Paul stated accusingly, in a low tone of voice. Henry frowned.

"What do you mean?" He scratched the back of his head, and then returned his hand to his pocket.

"She's a strumpet, Henry, a whore." Paul spat the derogatory words as if they left a foul taste in his mouth.

"You're not making sense, Paul." There was a hint of anger in Henry's voice as he spoke. "Carla is a very respectable woman."

"Aye, now that she's married with a child. But she had her jollies with the sailors, she did, Henry. You're wife's about as pure as a bilge rat." Henry's fists clenched, and he fought hard to keep them in his pockets.

"It's not the truth." His voice was menacingly low.

"What would the navy think, if they knew a fine, upstanding man like you married a strumpet? It's not right, Henry, it ain't." Henry couldn't contain his fierce anger any longer. He gripped Paul by the shirt collar and lifted him off the ground.

"Paul, you're a filthy liar. Carla would never. And even if it was true, how in bloody hell would you come across information like that?" Paul broke out in a hideous, wheezy chuckle.

"Because I paid her." Henry suddenly released his grip from Paul, and took a step back. "It's the truth, Mr. Edwards. I bedded your sweet Carla like every other man in this town."

"God save your soul, Paul Leonhardt, because if you ain't bluffing, I will kill you."

I will kill you. The words reverberated painfully in Morgan's ears. Her father's voice was so cold and raw, edged with sheer anger. Was this the same father she knew and grew up with, the father who would lift her up on his shoulders and take her into town to shop for trinkets, who would tuck her into bed at night and keep away fictional monsters; was this the same father who, after all the broken vases, ripped skirts, and exceeded curfews, never once raised his voice, and loved unconditionally?

"Then kill me if you will, Mr. Edwards. Carla was supposed to be mine, she was. She loved me, more than any of the other sailors or scoundrels. And then you came along. You ruined it all, Henry Edwards. You stole her from me, and you stole from me a commodore rank. I resent you, and I hope you burn in hell." Henry balled his fists, and threw a punch at Paul. Paul reeled backwards, tenderly covering the right half of his face.

"Mr. Edwards!" Paul was appalled at Henry's actions.

"Goodnight, Mr. Leonhardt." Henry growled, planting his fists at his sides, and storming up the path away from the dock.

Morgan fled. Blending with the night, her feet barely touched the ground as she flew home. Surely, she thought, she would be found out. I will kill you. Had Morgan not left her bedroom window open, she never would have made it back to bed in time. She dashed around the side of the house, and scrambled through her window as her father climbed the front stoop. She dove into her bed, pulling the blankets up way over her head, and she could feel her heart pounding in her throat. She clenched her eyes shut as she heard footsteps come down the hall, and stop in front of her door. I will kill you.

Henry lightly pushed open the door of Morgan's bedroom, gazing upon his sleeping daughter.

"Goodnight, poppet." He whispered with a tired smile, and shut the door.