Excerpt from Marley by Jon Clinch, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

His most important mission accomplished, Marley turns his back upon the laboring men and strides up the gangway and proceeds belowdecks. He seeks Captain Grommet, master of the Marie for longer than anyone can say, and he finds him sharing a ration of rum with Mr. Flee, her first mate. The two have been allied far longer than Scrooge and Marley, although to less cumulative financial effect. Grommet, clad all in black, is a hatchet-faced skeleton thin enough to conceal himself in the Marie's rigging. Flee, discounting the jut of his evil-smelling corncob pipe, is as square and solid as a sea chest stood on end. This present tot of rum is clearly not their first of the morning.

"Ahoy there," Flee hiccups, not grasping their visitor's identity in this chamber whose only light drips from a waterous green deck prism mounted overhead.

Grommet silences him with a baleful glance. He brings himself to his feet, unfolding like a conjured specter. "Good morning, Mr. Nemo," he says, in the oily tones of an undertaker hopeful of finding work.

Marley clamps his thin lips into a razor-cut line but does not correct him, for it is his custom in all matters relating to the Marie and her various cargoes to do business under that name. "Grommet," he says. "Flee." His eye is on the jug.

"I know, I know," confesses Grommet. "It is a bit early."

Marley offers the hint of a smile. "That's nothing to me."

"Very good, Mr. Nemo," says Flee, hoisting his cup. "Very good indeed. You're a true gentleman and a kind master."

"I am not so true," says Marley, reaching into the depths of his overcoat to withdraw a pair of envelopes — one marked "G.," the other "F." He holds them close to his vest, as if deciding whether or not he should provide these two with their pay after all. "Nor am I so kind. The simple fact is that I shall no longer be your master, although whether or not you stay on with the ship will likely be your decision."

Grommet's black eyes flare. "You're selling her?"

"So it would appear." Marley reaches out and tucks an envelope into each man's pocket, with a tenderness prompted more by the negotiables within than by the individuals under his employ.

"It's that damned Slave Trade Act, ain't it?"

"That and certain other concerns." For Marley never tells anyone his entire business.

Grommet's mind begins working. "Perhaps we could arrange to haul some other cargo on that leg."

"Some other cargo?"

"Anything you wish."

Marley scoffs. "What I wish, Captain Grommet, is that you could name for me some other cargo whose value equals that of a hold packed with men."

Grommet cogitates. Flee chews his lip. They can think of nothing.

"In the absence of such miraculous cargo," Marley goes on, "Mr. Hawdon and I have elected to sell the Marie and leave the business of slaving to the Americans."

"Americans."

"Just so. I'm certain that you'll get along famously. The new owners are a pair of Quaker gentlemen: a Mr. Bildad and a Mr. Peleg."

Grommet makes a mental note, the gears within his bony head grinding almost audibly. The names seem to ring a very old and rusty bell.

Marley turns on his heel and makes for the companionway. "By the sound of it, they're Old Testament fellows. Believers in the Almighty and so forth. If I were you, I'd mind the rum."

Marley follows the last few men down the gangplank to the quay, where he enlists a brace of them to help rig a long plank across the Marie's stern. Together — Marley is as willing to bark his knuckles as the next fellow — they suspend it from the quarterdeck rail, just below the wooden plate that bears the ship's name. That sorry panel is as disreputable-looking as the rest of the ship, having like the balance of her endured two or three decades of nautical abuse with little in the way of cosmetic or even mechanical attention. Under close examination, it would seem to have begun life either a shiny black or a deep oceanic blue, with incised letters done up in gold leaf, the letters themselves surrounded by nosegays of stylized flowers similarly executed. Marley studies it from every perspective, noting with satisfaction that the fog has begun to burn off and the sun to emerge at a favorable angle. Then he scrambles down and strides toward his carriage.

Excerpted from Marley by Jon Clinch. Copyright © 2019 by Jon Clinch. Excerpted by permission of Atria Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.