Even as I grasped the plan I felt a pang of embarrassment that compelled me to turn away.
“What’s the matter?”
The pain in my heart made it impossible for me to speak.
“Tell me,” he coaxed.
“Zachariah …”
“What?”
“You’re … a black man.”
“That I am. But this state of Rhode Island where we’re going, it has no more slaves.” He suddenly checked himself. “Or am I wrong?”
“A black man, Zachariah, a common sailor, testifying against a white officer …” I didn’t have the heart to finish.
“Ah, but Charlotte, didn’t you once tell me it was your father who’s part of the company that owns the Seahawk? You did. The plan is to go to him. You’ll give me a good character, won’t you? And if he’s like you, there’s nothing to fear.”
A tremor of unease passed through me. I wasn’t sure what to say. I stole a glance at him. “What about Cranick?” I asked. “Did he die? Truly?”
“More’s the pity,” he said with a shake of his head and a lapse into silence. Then he looked up. “Now then,” he said, “I have talked too much of myself. I saw Barlow bring you here, and lock you in. Did you mock Jaggery again?”
I was taken aback. “Didn’t anyone tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“Zachariah … Mr. Hollybrass was murdered.”
“Murdered!” he cried. “When?”
“During the storm.”
“I wasn’t told.”
“Why not?”
“I cannot imagine.” He grew thoughtful, and even glanced toward the ladder. Then, abruptly, he turned back to me and said, “But what’s that to do with you?”
“Zachariah, it’s the reason I’m here. The captain has accused me.”
“You?” Again he seemed surprised.
I nodded.
“But surely, Charlotte, you did nothing of the kind.” He looked around. “Or did you?”
“No.”
“Then there’s no more to be said.”
I shook my head. “Zachariah,” I went on, “the crew seems to side with Jaggery, to think it was me.”
“I cannot believe that,” he exclaimed.
“Zachariah, it’s true.”
He gazed at me in perplexity. “Now it is my turn to ask—why?”
“The murder was done with the dirk you gave me.”
“What proof is that? Someone must have taken it from your things in the forecastle.”
“Zachariah, when I moved to the forecastle I left it in my cabin.”
“Then of course you have nothing to do with it.”
“They don’t believe I left it there.”
“Charlotte, you are not given to lies,” he said.
“When you first saw me, Zachariah, did you think that I would ever go before the mast?”
“No …”
“Or climb into the rigging during a storm?”
“Not at all.”
“Well then? Why shouldn’t I have murdered Mr. Hollybrass as well? I’m sure that’s the way they’re thinking.”
My words silenced him for a few moments. His face clouded. But instead of commenting, he stood up. “I have a store of food and water here. I’ll get some.” Securing the candle to a plank, he moved into the darkness.
I watched him go, puzzled and troubled by his reaction to what I’d said. While he had appeared genuinely surprised, it seemed impossible that he hadn’t been told. And indeed, as he vanished into the gloom, a ghastly notion began to fill my head.
Perhaps it was Zachariah who had killed Mr. Hollybrass!
No doubt he would have killed the captain, given the chance. As for the first mate … Had Zachariah done it to strike fear into Captain Jaggery? The very idea was loathsome to me. And yet … My racing mind began to construct an entire conspiracy.
The crew, knowing Zachariah was alive, might have guessed—perhaps knew for a certainty—that he had done the crime, but would not acknowledge it. Now, with the captain accusing me, they were being asked to choose between me and Zachariah, their old comrade. A decision on their part to defend him would be understandable, and would go far to explain why they’d abandoned me.
But before I could puzzle out my thoughts, Zachariah returned with a jug of water and a hardtack loaf. Mealy as the bread was, I was glad to have it.
“Do you wish to be free of there?” he asked, nodding toward my cage.
“It’s locked.”
“A sailor knows his ship,” he said slyly. Reaching toward the back of the brig, he pulled two bars out from what I now realized were rotten sockets.
“Come along,” he said, “but be ready to bolt in if anyone comes.”
I did so, and we sat side by side, our backs against a barrel in the flickering candlelight.
“Zachariah,” I said, “the captain has said he’d bring me to trial. Do you think he means it?”
“That’s his right.”
“And if he does hold a trial, what will happen?”
“He’ll be judge and jury and find you guilty.”
“And then … ?” I asked. When Zachariah didn’t answer I said, “Tell me.”
“I cannot believe he’d go so far …”
“As to hang me?”
His silence was answer enough. For a while we both remained silent. “Zachariah,” I said, “I need to know: did anyone else besides me see you during the storm?”
“I exchanged words.”
“With whom?”
“Does it make a difference?”
“Maybe.”
He considered. “Fisk,” he said after a moment. “And Keetch.”
“Then it’s likely the entire crew knew you came up.”
“It’s possible,” he said with a sudden frown.
Had he read my mind? “Zachariah,” I said softly, “it’s bound to be one of your mates who killed Hollybrass.”
“Charlotte,” he said with a sigh, “that’s true. Every one of them might have a good reason. But, look here, once we discover who it is we can decide what to do.”
I kept glancing sidelong at him, trying to read his mind, more and more convinced that it was he who was the murderer. Still, I lacked the courage to ask.
“Tell me all you know,” he said.
I related what little I could, from the discovery of Mr. Hollybrass’s body to Captain Jaggery’s accusation.
My words made him even more thoughtful. “Charlotte,” he said finally. “That dirk. Did you tell anyone else you had it?”
I cast my mind back. “Shortly after you gave the blade to me,” I recalled, “I wanted to give it back. Remember? Zachariah, when you refused to take it, I offered it to the captain.”
He turned around sharply. “But why?”
“I was afraid of it. And you.”
“Still?”
“No. But then I was.”
“Did you tell him where you got it?”
I shook my head.
“It’s not like him to let the matter go at that. He must have demanded an answer.”
“He did.”
“And?”
“I made one up.”
“Did he believe it?”
“I thought so.”
“What followed?”
“He said I should keep it. Place it under my mattress.”
“And … did you?”
“Yes.”
“Did anyone else know you had it?”
I thought hard. “Dillingham!”
“What about him?”
“When I was going to give it back to you, I was holding it in my hand. Dillingham saw it. I know he did.”
“And if he told others,” Zachariah mused out loud, “then there’s not a soul aboard who could not know of it.”
The moment he said it I knew he was right. And I remembered something else. Zachariah also told me to put it under my mattress. I glanced around and caught him stealing a sidelong look at me.
“Zachariah, I didn’t kill Hollybrass. I was aloft when it happened. And when I went aloft, it was the captain who gave me a knife to use. I didn’t even have one.”
“What happened to that one he gave you?”
“I lost it.”
He grunted. Neither yes nor no.
Once more I could taste my accusation of him on my tongue. Even as I thought it the candle gutted and went out. The darkness seemed to swallow my ability to talk.
But Zachariah talked, a sudden and surprising torrent, dark tales about each member of the crew. Every jack of them, he claimed, had run afoul of the law at some time or other. Not mere snitch thieves or cutpurses either; some were true felons.
More compelling than what he said was what he did not say. The more Zachariah talked the more convinced I was that his rambling chatter was meant to keep us from the crucial question—who killed Mr. Hollybrass? And the more that question was avoided, the more certain I was that it was he.
But how could I accuse him? The captain would have to know that he was alive, and that knowledge would mean Zachariah’s certain death! Also, it would mean the end of the crew’s plan—which required Zachariah—for bringing Captain Jaggery to justice.
No wonder I couldn’t ask him the question. I did not want to know!
A noise startled me. I felt Zachariah’s hand on my arm. A warning.
A shaft of light dropped into the darkness. I could see that the cargo hatch on deck had been pulled open. In moments we heard someone on the ladder.
I scurried back into the brig. Zachariah hastened to close the bars. Then he retrieved his water jug and disappeared from my side. I did not know where.
I looked toward the ladder and saw Captain Jaggery descending slowly. He carried a lantern and had a pistol tucked into his belt.
When he reached the foot of the ladder he paused and looked about, as if making an inspection of the hold. Finally he approached the brig. There he lifted the lantern and scrutinized me as if I were some thing. It was a look filled with a hatred such as I had never seen before—or since—its clear, precise intensity given greater force by his state of personal disorder, his unkempt hair, his dirty face, the trembling muscle along his jaw.
At last he said, “Miss Doyle, to have murdered a shipmate—an officer—is a capital offense. The penalty for such an act is death by hanging. Let me assure you, a trial is not required, the evidence being altogether clear. I have the right to sentence you without trial. But I insist that you have your ‘fairness.’ It shall not be me who judges you. I’m not such a fool as that. No, the judgment will be made by those whom you have taken as your equals, your shipmates.”
So saying he undid the padlock on the brig and pulled the gate open.
“So be it, Miss Doyle. Your trial commences.”
WHEN I EMERGED ON DECK FROM THE DARK HOLD, THE VERY PERFECTION of the day—bright sun, dazzling blue sky, clouds both full and white—made me shade my eyes. And though the Seahawk pitched and rolled gently upon the softest of seas, I felt as though my legs would give way under me. For when I was able to look about I saw that the captain had arranged a kind of courtroom.
In the ship’s waist, on the starboard side, he had assembled the crew in two rows, some sitting on the deck, the rest standing behind the front rank. Before them—atop the central cargo hatch—a chair had been placed. The captain hurried me past the crew—none of whom would look me in the eye—and instructed me to sit in the chair, saying it would serve as the prisoner’s dock.
Now he took his place in one of his fine cabin chairs. It had been set up high behind the quarterdeck rail, a rail that he pounded sharply with the butt of his pistol.
“I proclaim this court to be in session in strict accordance with the law,” he said. “Considering the overwhelming evidence against the accused, it needn’t be held at all. But as I have told Miss Doyle, she will enjoy the benefit of my generosity.”
So saying he now took up his Bible, and though he had just seated himself, rose abruptly and brought it down to the crew. It was Fisk he approached first.
“Place your hand upon this,” he demanded.
Fisk did as he was ordered, but, clearly unnerved, touched the book as one might a hot plate.
“Do you, Mr. Fisk,” the captain intoned, “swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
Fisk hesitated. He glanced quickly at me.
“Do you?” Captain Jaggery pressed.
“Yes,” Fisk replied finally in a hollow whisper.
Satisfied, the captain went on to the next man, then the next, until he had sworn in the entire crew.
From the solemnity that showed upon their faces, from their nervous fidgets and downcast eyes, it was clear to me that the men were mightily unsettled by the oath they had been made to take. They could not take the Bible lightly.
But I was certain each of them believed—as I did—that the murder was done by Zachariah, whom they themselves had conspired to hide in the hold. It was to him they would remain steadfast, not me. They would tell the truth, but in such a way as to protect Zachariah. How could I disagree?
Once Captain Jaggery had sworn in the crew, he approached me. I too laid my hand on his Bible. I too promised to tell the truth even as I knew I would not speak it completely.
The swearing done the captain returned to his chair and again banged his pistol on the rail. “Will the accused stand,” he said.
I stood.
“Before this court,” he continued, “I, Andrew Jaggery, by my rightful authority as master of the Seahawk, charge you, Charlotte Doyle, with the unnatural murder of Samuel Hollybrass, late of Portsmouth, England, first mate on the Seahawk. Miss Doyle, how plead you?”
“Captain Jaggery …” I tried to protest.
“How plead you, Miss Doyle?” he repeated sternly.
“I did not do it.”
“Then you plead innocent.”
“Yes, innocent.”
“Miss Doyle,” he asked, with what I could have sworn was a slight smile about his lips, “do you desire to withdraw your claim to being a member of this crew? That is to say, do you wish to hide behind your father’s name, and thus avoid judgment by these men?”
I turned slightly so as to consider the crew. They were gazing at me intently but offered nothing to help. Though I sensed a trap in the question, I was loath to abandon my trust in the men just when I most needed them.
“Miss Doyle, do you wish to be judged by these men or not?”
“I trust them,” I said finally.
“Do you wish to charge someone else with the act of murder?”
“No,” I said.
“Let it thus be understood,” Jaggery declared, “that the accused insists she be judged by this court, and further, charges no one else with this crime.” So saying, he pulled a log book onto his lap, and with pen in hand, wrote down my words.
When done, he looked up. “Miss Doyle, do you agree that someone murdered Mr. Hollybrass?”
“Yes.”
“Someone on the Seahawk?”
“It has to be.”
“Exactly. Someone on this ship. And at the moment you are the only one accused.”
“You have accused me.”
“But given the opportunity, Miss Doyle, you accused no one else.” It was clear this was a major point with him. All I could reply was, “Yes.”
The captain made a note in his book, then shifted his attention to the crew. “Is there any man here who is willing to defend this prisoner?”
I turned to the men whom I’d begun to call friends. Ewing. Barlow. Fisk. Not one of them would look at me.
“No one?” the captain asked mockingly.
No one.
“Very well,” the captain went on. “Miss Doyle, you will have to defend yourself.”
“They are frightened of you,” I said. “They won’t speak because—”
“Miss Doyle,” he interrupted, “is it
not my right, my responsibility, as master of this ship, to determine who used the knife and for what reasons?”
“Yes, but—”
Again he cut in. “Have I asked for anything but the truth?”
“No …”
“And a murder was committed by someone on this ship. That is not open to question. But have you so much as hinted it was someone else?”
“No, but—”
“Miss Doyle, although none of these men wishes to defend you they have all sworn to speak the truth. Can you ask for anything more than that?”
Again I said nothing.
“Very well. We shall begin.”
He leaned back in his chair, log book still in his lap, pen in hand, pistol at the ready. “We have agreed that Mr. Hollybrass was murdered. Is there anyone here who believes he was killed by other than this weapon?”
He held up the dirk. No one spoke.
The captain continued. “Let us now determine its ownership. Miss Doyle,” he asked, “do you recognize this knife?”
“Captain Jaggery, I left it …”
“Miss Doyle,” he said again. “Do you recognize this knife?”
“Captain Jaggery …”
“Was this the blade that killed Mr. Hollybrass?” he repeated.
“Yes.”
“Very well then,” he said. “I shall ask once more. Do you recognize this knife?”
“I do,” I said reluctantly.
“Tell us about it.”
“Zachariah gave it to me.”
“Mr. Zachariah?” he said, pretending to be surprised.
“Yes. And I showed it to you a few days into the voyage.”
“But when you showed it to me,” he quickly put in, “and I asked who gave it to you, what did you say?”
I said nothing.
“You told me that a certain Mr. Grummage of Liverpool gave it to you. Am I correct?”
“Captain Jaggery …”
“Answer the question. Yes or no?”
“Yes.”
“Are you saying now that you lied? Yes or no?”
“Yes,” I said, appealing to the crew, “but only because I didn’t wish to bring harm upon Zachariah.”