Darkness. That’s all there was at first. I opened my eyes and saw nothing but the abyss. As soon as my head quit swirling, I recalled the events of the night before.

The night was alive on the banks of the Willamette River. O’Donnell’s Tavern was the center of one of the greatest blowouts Portland had ever known. Music rose from every pub, bar and hotel. People across the city were ringing in the New Year. Fireworks blasted overhead above banners reading ‘Welcome, 1890.’ I smiled grimly, remembering the debauchery of the previous night.

I sat up, causing my head to spin again. My arms gave out, causing my head to hit the straw floor with a thud. My eyes began to adjust as the dizziness turned to pain. Shafts of orange light cast through what looked to be rotting planks. I extended my arm no more than a foot to feel the rough texture of brick and mortar. ‘Trapped’ I thought. I knew not by whom or why, but I began to feel the primal chills of panic sweeping over me. Formulating a foggy plan, I thrust my foot against what I assumed was the door. I reasoned that since the wood looked to be old, I could break the braces.

I kicked twice. The door began to crack. Just as I started to see new shafts of light seeping through, the door swung violently open. Even the dim light was dazzling, enrobing a slender figure. “What’s all this?” the silhouette barked. In my daze I became aware of a searing pain beginning on my left shoulder spreading down my back. It was only then that I noticed the thick lash in the figure’s hand. His voice was now quiet, but the razors were still in it, “I don’t want to hear another sound out of you, understand?” he said, slamming the door behind him.

At the sound of the man’s voice, a whole new flood of memories returned. “The man in the bar” I whispered. I suddenly remembered that voice, the sharp, cooing sound that had just accosted me. In O’Donnell’s, I hazily recalled sitting down at the crowded bar, and next to me sat a pale, almost serpentine man. He was dressed nicely, to an extent. His stock tie was wrinkled and undone, his coat was a shambles. It was merely a polite conversation, a couple of ‘Happy New Year’s’ and a hello shouted over the din. I did not know the danger I was in when he ordered a round for us. That was the last I remembered. I finished my whiskey, and then began the spinning I had now grown so accustomed to. The last I heard was that pointed voice; “to Shanghai you go, my friend.”

I cursed and beat my fist on the wall. Shanghaied I thought with a groan. I had heard of this before. They called the men crimps, the kind to drug someone and haul them off to sell. I knew then that I was to be sold off to a ship, then who knows how far I would go. I sat up, now fully understanding the grave situation I was in. I huddled into one of the cell corners, my breath becoming shaky. I soon fell asleep again, the last sound I heard was the cries of dozens of others just like myself; those who had just awoken to their new life.
I awoke, praying that I had dreamt the night before. I wanted to wake up in my home, in my own bed. Before I opened my eyes, I gave one last prayer and touched the ground below me. My heart sank. I felt the same straw floor underneath me, when my eyes opened; the same shafts of light fell upon me. With a dejected sigh, I leaned my head against the wall, and experienced the strangest sensation. A slight breeze. Not fresh air, but more of the feeling of an opening next to me. I felt blindly nest to my head, finding what seemed to be a missing brick in the wall.

“Is someone there?” Whispered a gruff voice.

The sound gave me a start. With a jump I said “Yes, I’m here”

There came a sigh, “So they got another one, huh? What’s your name, stranger?”

“Jameson,” I croaked my throat still dry “Patrick Jameson.”

Before I could ask the name of this voice, he spoke up, “Pleasure.” he said. “It’s good to have a companion down here.”

“Where are we?” I asked.

The voice paused, “You ever heard of the tunnels?”

“The ones that lead under all the taverns?”

“Yes, used to be shippers would use these to move their product to avoid traffic. Now it looks like they’ve got a bad crimp infestation.” he snorted.

There was another pause. “How long have you been in here?” I whispered, more desperately, not wanting to lose my new companion.

“Look around, friend.” said the voice, “you think you’ll know what day it is down here?”

“True” I said.

In the following days, my only companion was the voice. Several times I tried to ask the gruff man’s name, but every time he dodged the question. Regardless of names or titles I had a companion in that dark place. As well as never knowing my comrade’s name, I never saw the man. It was rather a queer occurrence on the days we were released from our cells for thin gruel and water. I saw the serpentine man and others of his sort. I saw other men, just as harried and ragged as I. I saw young sad-eyed women, broken and defeated, knowing their fate at the far ports, but never did I see my friend from the cell. It made sense to me then, we had never seen one another, only heard voices. It came to the point where I would even take the risk of speaking loudly around the crimps. At the risk of the lash, I hoped against hope that my friend would recognize my voice. Time and time again I tried, and time and time again I could not find my companion.

Nevertheless, in the darkness we traded tales, told of worldly knowledge, (we were not all that different he and I) did anything to keep each other sane. He was from Portland, same as I, was Catholic, he fished regularly. In this companion I saw much of myself, he had merely led a more ‘unruly’ life than I, being one to dabble in more unsavory practices. I learned much of my friend, except for one detail. I asked time and time again my friend’s name, yet he always seemed to avoid the question. Eventually, I reasoned that he did not want to be known for whatever reason and I dared not risk losing the voice in the cell next to me. In the darkness; days, weeks, months, who knows how much time passed? The darkness was maddening, but one thing the man told me he would tell me there was only one thing I need remember. “We’ll see the daylight again.” he would say. Every day I would hear this and I swear, that is what kept me alive. Our conversations were rejuvenating, a figurative light in literal darkness.

But there came a day when the voice stopped. I could no longer hear my friend. Oh, did I mourn. I felt that my dearest brother had left me. I wept and called for my dear friend whose face I had never seen. Night after night, my calls rose above the shouts and groans without owners which echoed throughout those dark halls. I began calling out for anyone to speak to me, even the cruel crimps I merely wished for a voice to say my name, anyone.

Now, I am to this day unsure of what happened next. It must’ve been a few days or so since I had lost my friend, we were being taken down the tunnels to be shipped off at the docks. I overheard two of the crimps speaking. I had not paid it any mind until one of them gestured back at me.

“Poor fellow’s a bit touched, I’m afraid.” he murmured. “I’ll bet we can still get full price on him, though.”

I was curious. The other looked back at me, saying “This one? The one who was talking to himself all hours of the night? That empty cell must’ve been interesting.” he snorted.

I was so certain. I knew that in that darkness I had found a friend. And yet, in a mere moment, all of that shattered. And yet again, in the depths of my despair, it gave me hope. That perhaps this friend was always with me. In all my travels, on ship after ship, in ports all around the world, I hoped to hear my friend again. To this day, I have never heard him.

But he remains. In spirit, this nameless companion is there. Every day of struggle and hardship I remember his words;
“We’ll see the daylight again.”