Everywhere I looked great canvas sails of gray, from mainsail to main royal, from flying jib to trysail, were bellied out. Beyond the sails stretched the sky itself, as blue as a baby’s bluest eyes, while the greenish sea, crowned with lacy caps of foaming white, rushed by with unrelenting speed. The Seahawk had gone to sea. We must have left Liverpool hours before!
As this realization took hold, the Seahawk, almost as if wishing to offer final proof, pitched and rolled. Nausea choked me. My head pounded.
Weaker than ever, I turned around in search of support. For a fleeting but horrible second I had the notion that I was alone on board. Then I realized that I was being watched with crude curiosity. Standing on the quarterdeck was a red-faced man whose slight stoop and powerful broad shoulders conspired to give the impression of perpetual suspicion, an effect heightened by dark, deep-set eyes partially obscured by craggy eyebrows.
“Sir …” I called weakly. “Where are we?”
“We’re coasting down the Irish Sea, Miss Doyle,” replied the man, his voice raspy.
“I … I … I shouldn’t be here,” I managed. But the man, seemingly indifferent to my words, only turned and with a slab of a hand reached for a bell set up at the head of the quarterdeck in a kind of gallows. He pulled the clapper three times.
Even as I tried to keep myself from sinking to the deck, nine men suddenly appeared in the ship’s waist, from above as well as below, fore as well as aft. All wore the distinctive sailor’s garb of canvas britches and shirts. A few had boots, while some had no shoes at all. One or two wore tar-covered hats, others caps of red cloth. Two had beards. One man had long hair and a ring in his left ear. Their faces were dark from sun and tar.
They were, in all, as sorry a group of men as I had ever seen: glum in expression, defeated in posture, with no character in any eye save sullenness. They were like men recruited from the doormat of Hell.
I did recognize the sailor who had given me the warning the night before. But he paid no attention to me. And when I looked for the man who called himself Zachariah, I finally found him peering out from beneath the forecastle deck, no more concerned with me than the others. They were all looking elsewhere. I shifted to follow their gaze.
The broad-shouldered man had been joined by another. Just to see him made my heart leap joyously with recognition and relief. From his fine coat, from his tall beaver hat, from his glossy black boots, from his clean, chiseled countenance, from the dignified way he carried himself, I knew at once—without having to be told—that this must be Captain Jaggery. And he—I saw it in a glance—was a gentleman, the kind of man I was used to. A man to be trusted. In short, a man to whom I could talk and upon whom I could rely.
But before I composed myself to approach, Captain Jaggery turned to the man who had rung the bell and I heard him say, “Mr. Hollybrass, we are short one.”
Mr. Hollybrass—I was soon to discover that he was the first mate—looked scornfully at the assembled men below. Then he said, “The second mate did the best he could, sir. No one else could be got to sign articles. Not for anything.”
The captain frowned. Then he said, “The others will have to take up the slack. I’ll not have any less. Have the men give their names.”
Hollybrass nodded curtly, then took a step forward and addressed the assembled crew. “Give your names,” he barked.
One by one the sailors shuffled forward a step, lifted their heads, doffed their caps, and spoke their names, but slumped into broken postures again once they returned to the line.
“Dillingham.”
“Grimes.”
“Morgan.”
“Barlow.”
“Foley.”
“Ewing.”
“Fisk.”
“Johnson.”
“Zachariah.”
When they had done, Hollybrass said, “Your crew, Captain Jaggery.”
At first the captain said nothing. He merely studied the men with a look of contempt, an attitude that, because I shared it, made me respect him even more. “Who is the second mate?” I heard him ask.
“Mr. Keetch, sir. He’s at the wheel.”
“Ah, yes,” the captain returned, “Mr. Keetch. I might have guessed.” He studied the line of sailors, smiled sardonically, and said, “But where, then, is Mr. Cranick?”
“Sir?” Hollybrass said, clearly puzzled.
“Cranick.”
“I don’t know the name, sir.”
“Now there’s an unlooked-for blessing,” the captain said, his manners nonetheless courtly. All this was said loudly enough for the crew—and me—to hear.
Captain Jaggery now took a step forward. “Well, then,” he said in a clear, firm voice, “it’s a pleasure to see you all again. I take it kindly that you’ve signed on with me. Indeed, I suspect we know each other well enough so each understands what’s due the other. That makes it easy.”
His confident tone was tonic to me. I felt myself gain strength.
“I have no desire to speak to any of you again,” the captain continued. “Mr. Hollybrass here, as first mate, shall be my voice. So too, Mr. Keetch as second mate. Separation makes for an honest crew. An honest crew makes a fair voyage. A fair voyage brings a profit, and profit, my good gentlemen, doth turn the world.
“But,” Jaggery continued, his voice rising with the wind, “I give warning.” He leaned forward over the rail much as I’d seen teachers lean toward unruly students. “If you give me less—one finger less—than the particulars of the articles you have signed, I shall take my due. Make no mistake, I will. You know I mean what I say, don’t you? No, we shall have no democracy here. No parliaments. No congressmen. There’s but one master on this ship, and that is me.” So saying he turned to his first mate. “Mr. Hollybrass.”
“Sir?”
“An extra issue of rum as a gesture of good will toward a pleasant, quick passage. Let it be understood that I know the old saying: no ship sails the same sea twice.”
“Very good, sir.”
“You may dismiss them,” the captain said.
“Dismissed,” echoed the first mate.
For a moment no one moved. The captain continued to look steadily at the men, then slowly, but with great deliberation, he turned his back upon them.
“Dismissed,” Hollybrass said again.
After the crew had gone he murmured some words to Captain Jaggery, the two shook hands, and the first mate went below. Now the captain was alone on the quarterdeck. Glancing upward at the sails from time to time, he began to pace back and forth in almost leisurely fashion, hands clasped behind his back, a study in deep thought.
I, meanwhile, still clung to the rail, braced against the heaving ship. But I had new hope. I had not been abandoned. My perception of Captain Jaggery made me certain that my world was regained.
Summoning such strength and courage as was left me, I mounted the steps to the quarterdeck. When I reached the top the captain was moving away from me. Grateful for the momentary reprieve, I stood where I was, fighting the nausea I felt, gathering all my womanly arts so as to present myself in the most agreeable fashion, making sure my hair, my best asset, fell just so—despite the breeze—to my lower back.
At last he turned. For a moment his severe eyes rested on me and then … he smiled. It was such a kind, good-natured smile that my heart nearly melted. I felt I would—I think I did—shed tears of gratitude.
“Ah,” he said with unimpeachable refinement, “Miss Doyle, our young lady passenger.” He lifted his tall hat in formal salutation. “Captain Andrew Jaggery at your service.” He bowed.
I took a wobbly step in his direction, and despite my weakness tried to curtsy.
“Please, sir,” I whispered in my most modest, ladylike way, “my father would not want me here on this ship and in this company. I must go back to Liverpool. To Miss Weed.”
Captain Jaggery smiled brilliantly, then laughed—a beguiling, manly laugh. “Return to Liverpool, Miss Doyle?” he said. “Out
of the question. Time, as they say, is money. And nowhere is this truer than on board a ship. We are well off and we shall continue on. God willing, we shall touch no land but welcome ports.
“I am sorry you have such rude company. I know you are used to better. It could not be helped. But in a month, no more than two, we shall have you safe in Providence, no worse off but for a little salt in that pretty hair of yours. In the meanwhile, I promise that when you’re well—for I can see by your pallor that you have a touch of seasickness—I’ll have you in my quarters for tea. We shall be friends, you and I.”
“Sir, I shouldn’t be here.”
“Miss Doyle, you have my word on it. No harm shall come your way. Besides, it’s said a pretty child—a pretty woman—keeps the crew in a civilized state, and this crew can do with some of that.”
“I feel so ill, sir,” I said.
“That’s only to be expected, Miss Doyle. In a few days it will pass. Now, you will excuse me. Duty calls.”
Turning, he made his way to the stern where the second mate stood at the wheel.
Checked by his courteous but complete dismissal of my request, and feeling even weaker than before, I somehow made my way back to my cabin.
I did manage to crawl into the bed. And once there I must have fallen into some kind of swoon. In any case I remained there, too ill, too weak to do anything, certain I’d never rise again.
Now and again I would feel a rough-skinned but gentle hand beneath my head. I would open my eyes, and there was Zachariah’s ancient black face close by, murmuring soft, comforting sounds, spooning warm gruel or tea into my mouth—I didn’t know which—as if I were some baby. Indeed, I was a baby.
And from time to time the face of Captain Jaggery loomed large too, a welcome and tender gift of sympathy. Indeed, I believed it was the sight of him more than anything else that sustained me. For I suffered real and terrible stomach pains, and dreadful headaches. Even my dreams were haunted by ghastly visions. So real were they that once I started up and found Zachariah’s dirk in my hand. I must have plucked it from beneath my mattress and was brandishing it against some imagined evil…. I heard a sound. I looked across the cabin. A rat was sitting on my journal, nibbling at its spine. Horrified, I flung the dirk at it, then buried my head in the coverlet, burst into tears, and cried myself to sleep again.
This bad time passed. At length I was able to sleep in peace. How long I slept I am not sure. But then at last I truly awoke.
WHEN I AWAKENED THAT TIME—TO THE SOUND OF FOUR bells—I had no idea whether I had slept one day or seven. I knew only that I was hungry. I sensed my own filthiness too. And I had an almost desperate desire for fresh air.
I lowered myself to the cabin floor and was pleased to find that my legs would—after a fashion—hold. But then, as I moved toward the door, my foot stepped on something. I almost fell. Bending down to investigate I realized I’d stepped on the dirk. When I recalled the circumstances as to why I’d thrown it, I resolved to return the dagger immediately.
So it was with dirk in hand that I left my cabin and went up the ladder and onto the deck, fully expecting to see the same brilliant scene of sky, sails, and sea that had greeted me when I had ventured on deck the first time. It was not to be so. Though the Seahawk heaved and rolled, creaked and groaned, her sails hung limply. The sky was different too; low, with a heavy dampness that instantly wet my face, though I felt nothing so distinct as rain. As for the sea, it was almost the same color as the sky, a menacing claylike gray. And yet, it was in constant motion, its surface heaving rhythmically like the chest of some vast, discomforted sleeper.
I looked about. A few of the sailors were working ropes or scouring decks with heavy holystones. Their sullen silence, their dirty clothing, was hardly a reassuring sight. Then I realized that one of them—Dillingham was his name—was staring right at me. He was a bearded, bald, and barrel-chested man, with great knuckled fists and a perpetually sulky frown. Suddenly, I saw that it was not so much me he was looking at but the blade I held in my hand.
Turning abruptly, I tried to hide the dirk in the folds of my skirt. When I stole a glance over my shoulder I noted that Dillingham had gone off. All the same the incident reminded me I had come on deck to give the knife back to Zachariah.
Concerned mostly that the other sailors not see what I held, I hastily made my way to the galley. Fortunately, Zachariah was there. Standing at the bulkhead, I mumbled, “Good morning.”
The old man turned from his pots. “Ah! Miss Doyle,” he cried. “I am glad to see you. And most pleased too that you’ve found your—what sailors call—sea legs.”
“Mr. Zachariah,” I said, weak and breathless, but holding out the dirk. “Take this back. I don’t want it.”
It was as if he had not heard me. “Would Miss Doyle wish some tea?”
I continued to offer the dirk. “Mr. Zachariah, please …”
“Come,” he said, “do as they do in big houses. Enter, drink, and eat. When one recovers one’s legs, there’s still a stomach to contend with. Then, perhaps, I’ll talk with Miss Doyle about my gift.”
I was not sure what to do. It was the smell of food that decided me. “I am very hungry.”
Immediately he reached into a tin chest and brought out what looked like a flat lump of hard dough. “Would Miss Doyle like this?” he asked as if offering a fine delicacy.
My nose wrinkled. “What is it?”
“Hardtack. Sailor’s bread. Come, Miss Doyle, sit.”
As loathsome as the food appeared, hunger dictated. I stepped forward, settled myself on the stool, and took the hardened cake. Meanwhile, I put the dirk in my dress pocket.
As I ate—not an easy task, for the biscuit was rock hard and close to tasteless—he busied himself in getting tea. “How long have I been ill?” I asked.
“On toward four days now.”
After a moment I said, “I wish to thank you for your kindness during that time.”
He turned and beamed. “Zachariah and Miss Doyle—together.”
Fearing he was taking liberties, I changed the subject. “Is it possible,” I asked, “to go where my trunk is? I need to get some fresh clothes as well as my reading.”
“For that,” he said, “you will need to apply to Mr. Hollybrass.” He offered me the tea.
I took the cup and began to sip at it. After a moment, I said, “Mr. Zachariah, when I finish my tea I intend to leave the dirk.”
The old man studied me. “Miss Doyle”—his hand touched his heart—“believe me. There may be a need.”
“What kind of need?” I said, dismayed.
“A ship, Miss Doyle … is a nation of its own.”
“Mr. Zachariah …”
“The nations of the earth, Miss Doyle, they have kings, and emperors …”
“And presidents,” I added, loyal American that I was.
“Yes, and presidents. But when a ship is upon the sea, there’s but one who rules. As God is to his people, as king to his nation, as father to his family, so is captain to his crew. Sheriff. Judge and jury. He is all.”
“All?” I said.
“Aye,” he said solemnly, “and hangman too if it comes to that. Now, Miss Doyle, if ever a man was master of his ship, it’s our Captain Jaggery. I saw you upon the deck that first day. Did you not mark his words?”
I drew myself up. “Mr. Zachariah,” I said, “the captain is a fine man.”
“Do you think so?”
“I know so.”
For a moment Zachariah merely gazed at me with a look of curiosity. Then he turned away and busied himself with his pots.
“Mr. Zachariah, why do I need the dirk?”
When he paused in his work, I sensed he was trying to make up his mind. After a moment he turned back to me. “Miss Doyle,” he said, “listen.” Even as he spoke he stole a quick glance out the door, crept forward, and lowered his voice.
“One year ago, Miss Doyle, on this same ship, Seahawk, one poor sailor came
under the captain’s ire, the captain’s judgment, the captain’s rage.”
“Mr. Zachariah, I don’t wish to hear personal—”
“Miss Doyle has asked,” he said, cutting me off, “now she must listen. That poor jack went by the name of Mr. Cranick.”
“Cranick?” I said. “Didn’t the captain ask Mr. Hollybrass about him?”
“Ah, you do listen.”
“What about him?” I asked, already sorry I had pressed for this explanation.
“Mr. Cranick did not tie a knot to Captain Jaggery’s particular pleasure. The captain punished Mr. Cranick. Punished him hard.”
“I’m sure this … Mr. Cranick deserved it.”
Zachariah cocked his head to one side. “Miss Doyle, do you believe in justice?”
“I am an American, Mr. Zachariah.”
“Ah! Justice for all?”
“For those who deserve it.”
“Captain Jaggery said Mr. Cranick’s laboring arm was his by rights. Miss Doyle, Mr. Cranick has but one arm now. He was that much beaten by Captain Jaggery, who, as he said himself, took the arm. I was first surgeon, then carpenter to Mr. Cranick.”
Appalled, I jumped off the stool. “I don’t believe you!” I exclaimed. “Justice is poorly served when you speak ill of your betters.” It was a phrase I had heard my father use many times.
“Whether you believe me or not, Miss Doyle, it is true,” he said, moving to block me from the exit.
It was my turn to offer him my back.
“Now, that crew,” he continued all the same, “each and every jack of them—once ashore—petitioned the admiralty courts against the captain. It was no use, Miss Doyle. No use. Jaggery had his way. All he needed to say was that Cranick refused a lawful order and he received not one word of censure. It’s a sad commonplace. I’ve yet to see a master charged.
“Ah,” Zachariah pressed on, “but the captain must sail again. Sailing is his life. He has his reputation for fast crossings to keep up, speeds that bring ripe profits. But to sail, even Jaggery needs a crew …”