I watched, terrified but fascinated, certain that the angry captain would shoot. I saw his finger on the trigger tighten, but then … he relaxed.
Zachariah knelt by Cranick and put his hand to the man’s wrist. He let it fall. “Mr. Cranick is no more,” he announced.
The stillness that followed these words was broken only by the soft, sudden flutter of a sail, the tinkling toll of a chain.
“Get him over,” the captain said finally.
No one moved.
“Mr. Zachariah,” the captain repeated with impatience. “Get him over.”
Once again Zachariah held out his open hands. “Begging the captain’s pardon,” he said. “Even a poor sinner such as he should have his Christian service.”
“Mr. Hollybrass,” the captain barked.
The first mate, having unloaded the crew’s pistols, had returned to the quarterdeck. “Sir?” he said.
“I want that dog’s carcass thrown over.”
“Cannot Mr. Zachariah say a few words—”
“Mr. Hollybrass, do as you’re ordered!”
The man looked from the captain to the crew. “Aye, aye, sir,” he said softly. Then slowly, as if a great weight had been cast upon him, he descended to the deck. Taking hold of the fallen man by his one arm, he began to drag him toward the rail. In his wake he left a trail of blood.
“Mr. Zachariah!” the captain thundered. “Open the gate.”
Zachariah gazed at the captain. Slowly he shook his head.
For a moment the two merely looked at one another. Then the captain turned to me.
“Miss Doyle, open the gate.”
I stared at him in shocked disbelief.
“Miss Doyle!” he now screamed in a livid rage.
“Sir …” I stammered.
“Open the gate!”
“I … can’t …”
Abruptly, the captain himself marched down the steps, pistols in hand. When he approached the railing he tucked one gun under his arm and quickly unlatched the gate so that it stood gaping above the sea.
“Mr. Hollybrass,” he snapped.
Mr. Hollybrass, sweat running down his hot, red face, pulled the body close but then he paused and offered a look of appeal to Captain Jaggery.
The captain spat at Cranick’s body. “Over!” he insisted.
The first mate pushed the body through the gate opening. There was a splash. My stomach turned. I saw some of the sailors wince.
The captain spoke again. “Mr. Cranick was not a part of this ship,” he said. “His coming and going have nothing to do with us. They shall not even be entered in the log.
“Beyond all that you should know you are a very poor set of curs. It took only this girl”—he nodded up to me—“to unmask you.”
Sullen eyes turned toward me. Ashamed, I looked away, trying to stifle my tears.
“As for the rest,” the captain continued, “I ask only that one of you—your second in command if you have one—come forward and take his punishment. Then the voyage shall go on as before. Who shall it be?”
When no one spoke, the captain turned to me. “Miss Doyle, as our lady, I’ll give you the privilege. Which one of these men shall you choose?”
I gazed at him in horrified astonishment.
“Yes, you! Since it was you who uncovered this despicable plot, I give you the honor of ending it. Whom shall you pick to set an example?”
I could only shake my head.
“Come, come. Not so shy. You must have some favorite.”
“Please, sir,” I whispered. I gazed down on the crew, looking now like so many broken animals. “I don’t want …”
“If you are too soft, I shall choose.”
“Captain Jaggery …” I attempted to plead.
He contemplated the men. Then he said, “Mr. Zachariah, step forward.”
ZACHARIAH DID NOT SO MUCH STEP FORWARD AS THOSE ABOUT HIM SHRANK AWAY. HE STOOD THERE AS alone as if he’d been marooned upon a Pacific isle. Though he did not lift his eyes he seemed nonetheless to sense his abandonment. Small, wrinkled man that he was, he appeared to have grown smaller.
“Mr. Zachariah,” the captain said. “Do you have anything to say?”
Zachariah remained silent.
“You had best speak for yourself,” the captain taunted. “I doubt your friends will say a word in your defense. They are all cowards.” He paused as if waiting for someone to challenge him. When no one spoke, he nodded and said, “So much for your shipmates, Mr. Zachariah. So much for your round robin. Now, sir, I ask you again, have you anything to say on your own behalf?”
At first Zachariah stared dead ahead; then he shifted his gaze slightly. I was certain he was looking right at me now.
I tried to turn away but couldn’t. Instead, I stood gazing at him, eyes flooded with tears. Zachariah began to speak. “I … I have … been a sailor for more than forty years,” he said slowly. “There … have been hard captains and easy ones. But you, sir, have … have been the worst.
“No, I’ll not regret rising against you,” he continued in his halting way. “I can only wish I’d acted sooner. I forgive the girl. You used her. She did not know better. I forgive my mates too. They know where Captain Jaggery takes command … no … God signs on.”
“A pretty speech,” the captain said scornfully. “And as much a confession as anything I have ever heard. You may all note it in case anyone bothers to ask questions, though I shouldn’t think anyone will care.” He looked contemptuously over the rest of the crew. “Is there any jack among you that will second this black man’s slanders?”
No one spoke.
“Come now!” he baited them. “Who will be bold enough to say that Captain Andrew Jaggery is the worst master he’s ever served. Speak up! I’ll double the pay of the man who says yea!”
Though the glitter of hatred in their eyes was palpable enough, no one dared give voice to it. The captain had them that much cowed.
“Very well,” he said. “Mr. Hollybrass, string Mr. Zachariah up.”
The first mate hesitated.
“Mr. Hollybrass!”
“Aye, aye, sir,” the man mumbled. With a kind of shuffle he approached Zachariah, but then stood before the old man as if nerving himself. Finally he reached out. Zachariah stepped back but it was of no avail. The first mate caught him by the arm and led him back up the steps.
As I looked on, aware only that something terrible was about to happen, Mr. Hollybrass set Zachariah against the outer rail and stripped him of his jacket. The skin of the old man’s chest hung loose and wrinkled like a ragged burlap bag.
Mr. Hollybrass turned Zachariah so that he faced into the shrouds, then climbed up into these shrouds and with a piece of rope bound his hands, pulling him so that the old man was all but hanging from his wrists, just supporting himself on the tips of his bare toes.
Zachariah uttered no sound.
I turned to look at Captain Jaggery. Only then did I see that he had a whip in his hands, its four strands twitching like the tail of an angry cat. Where he got it I don’t know.
Feeling ill, I made to leave the deck.
“Miss Doyle!” the captain cried out. “You will remain.”
I stopped dead.
“You are needed as witness,” he informed me.
Now the captain held the whip out to his first mate. “Mr. Hollybrass,” he said, “he’s to have fifty lashes.”
Again Hollybrass hesitated, eyebrows arched in question. “Captain,” he said, “fifty lashes seem—”
“Fifty,” the captain insisted. “Start!”
Hollybrass grasped the whip. As he took his time squaring away behind Zachariah, I could see his hand flex nervously, his temples pulse.
“Quickly!” the captain demanded.
Hollybrass lifted his arm and cocked it. Once more he paused, took a deep breath, until, with what appeared to be the merest flick of his wrist, the whip shot forward; its tails hissed through the air and spat against Za
chariah’s back. The moment they touched the old man’s skin four red welts appeared.
I felt I would faint.
“With strength, Mr. Hollybrass,” the captain urged. “With strength!”
Hollybrass cocked his arm. Again the wrist twisted. The whip struck. Zachariah’s body gave a jerk. Four new red welt lines crossed the first.
“Captain Jaggery!” I cried out suddenly, as much surprised as anyone that I was doing so.
The captain, startled, turned to look at me.
“Please, sir,” I pleaded. “You mustn’t.”
For a moment the captain said nothing. His face had become very white. “Why mustn’t I?” he asked.
“It’s … it’s not … fair,” I stammered.
“Fair?” he echoed, his voice thick with derision. “Fair? These men meant to murder me and no doubt you, Miss Doyle, and you talk of fair? If it’s fairness you want, I could quote you chapter and line of the admiralty codes that say I’d serve justice best by shooting the cur.”
“Please, sir,” I said, tears running down my cheeks. “I shouldn’t have told you. I didn’t know. I’m sure Mr. Zachariah meant no harm. I’m sure he didn’t.”
“No harm, Miss Doyle?” The captain held up the round robin. “Surely they teach you better logic than that in school.”
“But I had no idea that …”
“Of course you had an idea!” the captain snapped, his voice rising so all could hear. “You came to me in shock and terror to inform me about what you’d seen. How right you were to do so. And right is what we do here. Proper order will be maintained.”
He swung about. “Mr. Hollybrass, you have given but two lashes. If you can do no better you’d best stand aside for someone who has the gumption.”
Sighing, but summoning up his strength, Hollybrass struck once more. Zachariah was no longer standing on his toes. He was simply hanging.
Again the whip lashed. That time the old man moaned.
I could bear it no longer. In a surge of tears and agonized guilt, I hurled myself at Hollybrass, who, hardly expecting an attack, twisted, then tumbled to the deck. I fell with him.
In the scramble I managed to snatch hold of the whip handle and leap to my feet. I was trying to throw it overboard.
But Captain Jaggery was too quick. With a snarl he grabbed hold of me. Frantic, I slipped out of his grasp and stood facing him, panting, weeping, gripping the whip handle hard. “You mustn’t,” I kept saying. “You mustn’t!”
“Give me that!” the captain cried, advancing upon me again, his face blazing. “Give it!”
“You mustn’t,” I kept repeating. “You mustn’t!”
He took another step toward me. I’d wedged myself against the outward rail. In a gesture of defense I pulled up my arm, and so doing flicked the whip through the air, inflicting a cut across the captain’s face.
For an instant a red welt marked him from his left cheek to his right ear. Blood began to ooze.
I stood utterly astonished by what I’d done.
The captain remained motionless too, his face transfigured by surprise and pain. Slowly, he lifted a hand to his cheek, touched it delicately, then examined his fingertips. When he saw they were bloody he swore a savage oath, jumped forward and tore the whip from my hand, whirled about and began beating Zachariah with such fury as I had never seen. Finally, spent, he flung the whip down and marched from the deck.
Mr. Hollybrass, his face ashen, swallowed hard and murmured, “All hands resume your stations.” Groaning, he bent to gather up the guns and other weapons and followed after the captain.
For a moment no one did or said anything. Perhaps they had not heard the first mate. It was Fisk who broke the spell. “Cut him down!” I heard him cry.
Ewing hurried forward and climbed into the shrouds. In moments Zachariah’s scarred and bloodied body dropped to the deck.
Keetch knelt over the fallen man while the others, standing in a close circle, looked down in terrible silence. I could see nothing of what was happening. Instead I waited alone, trembling, trying to absorb all that I had seen and done.
But as I watched from outside their circle I felt myself grow sicker and sicker until, clutching my stomach, I turned and vomited into the sea.
Shaken, weak with tears, I looked back to the sailors. They had picked Zachariah up and were carrying him toward the forecastle.
I had been left alone.
SOBBING IN ABSOLUTE MISERY, I THREW MYSELF ONTO MY BED. I WEPT FOR ZACHARIAH, FOR CRANICK, even for Captain Jaggery. But most of all I wept for myself. There was no way to avoid the truth that all the horror I’d witnessed had been brought about by me.
As the ghastly scenes repeated themselves in my mind, I realized too that there was no way of denying what the captain had done. Captain Jaggery, my friend, my guardian—my father’s employee—had been unspeakably cruel. Not only had he killed Cranick—who was, I knew, threatening him—he had clearly meant to kill Zachariah for no reason other than that he was helpless! He singled him out because he was the oldest and weakest. Or was it because he was black? Or was it, I asked myself suddenly, because he was my friend?
Just the thought made me shiver convulsively. Tears of regret and guilt redoubled.
My weeping lasted for the better part of an hour. Aside from reliving the fearsome events, I was trying desperately to decide what to do. As I grasped the situation, the crew would have nothing but loathing for me who had so betrayed them. And they were right. After their kindliness and acceptance I had betrayed them.
And Captain Jaggery? Without intending to hadn’t I done him a great wrong when I’d cut his face—albeit unintentionally—with the whip? Could he, would he, forgive me?
Beyond all else I had been educated to the belief that when I was wrong—and how often had my patient father found me at fault—it was my responsibility—mine alone—to admit my fault and make amends.
Gradually then, I came to believe that no matter how distasteful, I must beg the captain’s forgiveness. And the sooner I did so, the better.
With this in mind I rose up, brushed my hair, washed my face, smoothed my dress, rubbed my shoes. Then, as ready as I could ever hope to be under the circumstances, I went to his cabin door and knocked timidly.
There was no answer. Again I knocked, perhaps a little more boldly.
This time I heard, “Who is it?”
“Charlotte Doyle, sir.”
My words were met by an ominous silence. But after a while he said, “What do you want?”
“Please, sir. I beg you let me speak with you.”
When silence was again the response, I nearly accepted defeat and went away. But at last I heard steps within. Then came the word, “Enter.”
I opened the door and looked in. Captain Jaggery was standing with his back to me. I remained at the threshold waiting for him to invite me to proceed further. He neither moved nor spoke.
“Sir?” I tried.
“What?”
“I … I did not mean …”
“You did not mean what?”
“I did not mean to … interfere,” I managed to say, now meekly advancing toward him. “I was so frightened … I didn’t know … I had no intention …” When the captain maintained his silence I faltered. But gathering up my strength again, I stammered, “And when I had the whip …”
Suddenly I realized he was about to turn. My words died on my lips.
He did turn. And I saw him. The welt I’d made across his face was a red open wound. But it was his eyes that made me shudder. They expressed nothing so much as implacable hatred. And it was all directed at me.
“Sir …” I tried, “I did not mean …”
“Do you know what you have done?” he said, his voice a hiss.
“Sir …”
“Do you know!” he now roared.
My tears began to flow anew. “I didn’t mean to, sir,” I pleaded. “I didn’t. Believe me.”
“You insulted me before my cr
ew as no man should ever be insulted.”
“But …”
“Insulted by a sniffling, self-centered, ugly, contemptible girl,” he spat out, “who deserves a horsewhipping!”
I sank to my knees, hands in prayerlike supplication.
“Let them take care of you,” he snarled. “In any way they want. I withdraw my protection. Do you understand? I want nothing to do with you. Nothing!”
“Sir …”
“And don’t you dare presume to come to my cabin again,” he shouted. “Ever!”
I began to weep uncontrollably.
“Get out!” he raged. “Get out!” He made a move toward me.
In great fright I jumped up—tearing the hem of my dress—and fled back to my cabin. But if the truth be known—and I swore when I began to set down this tale that I would tell only the truth—even at that moment all my thoughts were of finding some way to appease the captain and regain his favor. If I could have found a way to gain his forgiveness—no matter what it took—I would have seized the opportunity.
This time I did not cry. I was too numb, too much in a state of shock. Instead, I simply stood immobile—rather like the moment when I’d first cast eyes upon the Seahawk—trying confusedly to think out what I could do.
I tried, desperately, to imagine what my father, even what my mother or Miss Weed, might want me to do, but I could find no answer.
In search of a solution I finally stepped in dread out of the cabin and made my way to the deck. I told myself that what I wanted, needed, was fresh air. In fact, I was motivated by a need to know how the crew would receive me.
The ship was still adrift. No wind had caught our sails. The decks once more appeared deserted. My first thought was that the crew had fled! All I heard was the soft flutter of canvas, the clinking of chain, the heaving of boat timbers. It was as if the engines of the world itself had ground to a halt.
But when I looked to the quarterdeck I did see the crew. Heads bowed, they were standing together quietly. Then I heard the deep voice of Fisk, though exactly what he was saying I could not at first make out.
Hollybrass, I saw, was standing somewhat apart from the men, his dark eyes watching intently. There was a pistol in his hand but in no way was he interfering with them.