Recollecting Ewing’s advice, I shifted my eyes and focused them on the ropes before me. Then, reaching as high as I could into one of the middle shrouds, and grabbing a ratline, I began to climb.
The ratlines were set about sixteen inches one above the other, so that the steps I had to take were wide for me. I needed to pull as much with arms as climb with legs. But line by line I did go up, as if ascending an enormous ladder.
After I had risen some seventeen feet I realized I’d made a great mistake. The rigging stood in sets, each going to a different level of the mast. I could have taken one that stretched directly to the top. Instead, I had chosen a line which went only to the first trestletree, to the top of the lower mast.
For a moment I considered backing down and starting afresh. I stole a quick glance below. The crew’s faces were turned up toward me. I understood that they would take the smallest movement down as retreat. I had to continue.
And so I did.
Now I was climbing inside the lank gray-white sails, ascending, as it were, into a bank of dead clouds.
Beyond the sails lay the sea, slate-gray and ever rolling. Though the water looked calm, I could feel the slow pitch and roll it caused in the ship. I realized suddenly how much harder this climb would be if the wind were blowing and we were well underway. The mere thought made the palms of my hands grow damp.
Up I continued till I reached the main yard. Here I snatched another glance at the sea, and was startled to see how much bigger it had grown. Indeed, the more I saw of it the more there was. In contrast, the Seahawk struck me as having suddenly grown smaller. The more I saw of her, the less she was!
I glanced aloft. To climb higher I now had to edge myself out upon the trestletree and then once again move up the next set of ratlines as I’d done before. But at twice the height!
Wrapping one arm around the mast—even up here it was too big to reach around completely—I grasped one of the stays and edged out. At the same moment the ship dipped, the world seemed to twist and tilt down. My stomach lurched. My heart pounded. My head swam. In spite of myself I closed my eyes. I all but slipped, saving myself only by a sudden grasp of a line before the ship yawed the opposite way. I felt sicker yet. With ever-waning strength I clung on for dearest life. Now the full folly of what I was attempting burst upon me with grotesque reality. It had been not only stupid, but suicidal. I would never come down alive!
And yet I had to climb. This was my restitution.
When the ship was steady again, I grasped the furthest rigging, first with one hand, then the other, and dragged myself higher. I was heading for the topsail, fifteen feet further up.
Pressing myself as close as possible into the rigging, I continued to strain upward, squeezing the ropes so tightly my hands cramped. I even tried curling my toes about the ratlines.
At last I reached the topsail spar, but discovered it was impossible to rest there. The only place to pause was three times higher than the distance I’d just come, at the trestletree just below the topgallant spar.
By now every muscle in my body ached. My head felt light, my heart an anvil. My hands were on fire, the soles of my feet raw. Time and again I was forced to halt, pressing my face against the rigging with eyes closed. Then, in spite of what I’d been warned not to do, I opened them and peered down. The Seahawk was like a wooden toy. The sea looked greater still.
I made myself glance up. Oh, so far to go! How I forced myself to move I am not sure. But the thought of backing down now was just as frightening. Knowing only that I could not stay still, I crept upward, ratline by ratline, taking what seemed to be forever with each rise until I finally reached the level just below the topgallant spar.
A seasoned sailor would have needed two minutes to reach this point. I had needed thirty!
Though I felt the constant roll of the ship, I had to rest there. What seemed like little movement on deck became, up high, wild swings and turns through treacherous air.
I gagged, forced my stomach down, drew breath, and looked out. Though I didn’t think it possible, the ocean appeared to have grown greater yet. And when I looked down, the upturned faces of the crew appeared like so many tiny bugs.
There were twenty-five or so more feet to climb. Once again I grasped the rigging and hauled myself up.
This final climb was torture. With every upward pull the swaying of the ship seemed to increase. Even when not moving myself, I was flying through the air in wild, wide gyrations. The horizon kept shifting, tilting, dropping. I was increasingly dizzy, nauseous, terrified, certain that with every next moment I would slip and fall to death. I paused again and again, my eyes on the rigging inches from my face, gasping and praying as I had never prayed before. My one hope was that, nearer to heaven now, I could make my desperation heard!
Inch by inch I continued up. Half an inch! Quarter inches! But then at last with trembling fingers, I touched the spar of the royal yard. I had reached the top.
Once there I endeavored to rest again. But there the metronome motion of the mast was at its most extreme, the Seahawk turning, tossing, swaying as if trying to shake me off—like a dog throwing droplets of water from its back. And when I looked beyond I saw a sea that was infinity itself, ready, eager to swallow me whole.
I had to get back down.
As hard as it was to climb up, it was, to my horror, harder returning. On the ascent I could see where I was going. Edging down I had to grope blindly with my feet. Sometimes I tried to look. But when I did the sight of the void below was so sickening, I was forced to close my eyes.
Each groping step downward was a nightmare. Most times my foot found only air. Then, as if to mock my terror, a small breeze at last sprang up. Sails began to fill and snap, puffing in and out, at times smothering me. The tossing of the ship grew—if that were possible—more extreme.
Down I crept, past the topgallant where I paused briefly on the trestletree, then down along the longest stretch, toward the mainyard. It was there I fell.
I was searching with my left foot for the next ratline. When I found a hold and started to put my weight upon it, my foot, slipping on the slick tar surface, shot forward. The suddenness of it made me lose my grip. I tumbled backward, but in such a way that my legs became entangled in the lines. There I hung, head downward.
I screamed, tried to grab something. But I couldn’t. I clutched madly at nothing, till my hand brushed against a dangling rope. I grabbed for it, missed, and grabbed again. Using all my strength, I levered myself up and, wrapping my arms into the lines, made a veritable knot of myself, mast, and rigging. Oh, how I wept! my entire body shaking and trembling as though it would break apart.
When my breathing became somewhat normal, I managed to untangle first one arm, then my legs. I was free.
I continued down. By the time I reached the mainyard I was numb and whimpering again, tears coursing from my eyes.
I moved to the shrouds I’d climbed, and edged myself past the lowest of the sails.
As I emerged from under it, the crew gave out a great “Huzzah!”
Oh, how my heart swelled with exaltation!
Finally, when I’d reached close to the very end, Barlow stepped forward, beaming, his arms uplifted. “Jump!” he called. “Jump!”
But now, determined to do it all myself, I shook my head. Indeed, in the end I dropped down on my own two India-rubber legs—and tumbled to the deck.
No sooner did I land than the crew gave me another “Huzzah!” With joyous heart I staggered to my feet. Only then did I see Captain Jaggery push through the knot of men and come to stand before me.
THERE I STOOD. BEHIND ME THE SEMICIRCLE OF THE CREW SEEMED TO RECOIL FROM THE MAN and from Mr. Hollybrass, who appeared not far behind.
“Miss Doyle,” the captain said with barely suppressed fury. “What is the meaning of this?”
I stood mute. How could I explain to him? Besides, there were no words left within me. I had gone through too many transformations of mood and spi
rit within the last twenty-four hours.
When I remained silent he demanded, “Why are you dressed in this scandalous fashion? Answer me!” The angrier he became, the darker grew the color of the welt on his face. “Who gave you permission to climb into the rigging?”
I backed up a step and said, “I … I have joined the crew.”
Unable to comprehend my words Captain Jaggery remained staring fixedly at me. Then gradually he did understand. His face flushed red. His fists clenched.
“Miss Doyle,” he said between gritted teeth, “you will go to your cabin, remove these obscene garments, and put on your proper dress. You are causing a disruption. I will not allow it.”
But when I continued to stand there—unmoving, making no response—he suddenly shouted, “Did you not hear me? Get to your cabin!”
“I won’t,” I blurted out. “I’m no longer a passenger. I’m with them.” So saying, I stepped back until I sensed the men around me.
The captain glared at the crew. “And you,” he sneered. “I suppose you’d have her?”
The response of the men was silence.
The captain seemed unsure what to do.
“Mr. Hollybrass!” he barked finally.
“Waiting your orders, sir.”
The captain flushed again. He shifted his attention back to me. “Your father, Miss Doyle,” he declared, “… he would not allow this.”
“I think I know my father—an officer in the company who owns this ship, and your employer—better than you,” I said. “He would approve of my reasons.”
The captain’s uncertainty grew. At last he replied, “Very well, Miss Doyle, if you do not assume your proper attire this instant, if you insist upon playing these games, you shall not be given the opportunity to change your mind. If crew you are, crew you shall remain. I promise, I shall drive you as I choose.”
“I don’t care what you do!” I threw back at him.
The captain turned to the first mate. “Mr. Hollybrass, remove Miss Doyle’s belongings from her cabin. Let her take her place in the forecastle with the crew. Put her down as Mister Doyle and list Miss Doyle in the log as lost. From this point on I expect to see that he works with the rest.” With that, he disappeared into the steerage.
No sooner had he done so than the crew—though not Mr. Hollybrass—let out another raucous cheer!
In just such a fashion did I become a full-fledged crew-member of the Seahawk. Whatever grievous errors I had made before—in thwarting the mutiny led by Cranick and in causing the resulting cruelty toward Zachariah—the sailors appeared to accept my change of heart and position without reservation. They saw my desire to become a crew member not only as atonement, but as a stinging rebuff to Captain Jaggery. Once I had showed myself willing to do what they did—by climbing the rigging—once they saw me stand up to Jaggery, an intense apprenticeship commenced. And for it the crewmen became my teachers. They helped me, worked with me, guided me past the mortal dangers that lurked in every task. In this they were far more patient with all my repeated errors than those teachers at the Barrington School for Better Girls when there was nothing to learn but penmanship, spelling, and the ancient authors of morality.
You may believe me too when I say that I shirked no work. Even if I’d wanted to, it was clear from the start that shirking would not be allowed. I pounded oakum into the deck. I scraped the hull. I stood watch as dawn blessed the sea and as the moon cut the midnight sky. I tossed the line to measure the depths of the sea. I took my turn at the wheel. I swabbed the deck and tarred the rigging, spliced ropes and tied knots. My mess was shared with the crew. And I went aloft.
Indeed, that first journey to the top of the mainmast was but the prelude to many daily climbs. Of course, after that first there were always others who went along with me. High above the sea, my crewmates taught me to work with one hand—the other must hold on—to dangle over spars, to reef sails, to edge along the walk ropes. So I came to work every sail, at every hour of the day.
As for the captain, he was as good as his word. No, better than his word. He continued to drive his crew without mercy, and since I was now a part of it, he drove them, and me in particular, harder than before. But try as he might he could find no cause for complaint. I would not let him.
My knowledge of physical labor had been all but nil, of course; hardly a wonder then that from the moment I joined the crew I was in pain. I ached as if my body had been racked. My skin turned pink, then red, then brown. The flesh upon my hands broke first into oozing, running sores, then metamorphosed into a new rough hide—all as promised. And when my watch was done I flung myself into my hammock and slept the sleep of righteousness—though never more than four hours and more often less.
A word must be said about where and how I slept. It will be remembered that the captain denied me my cabin, insisting that I take my place in the forecastle with the men. No doubt he thought to humiliate me and force me to return to my former place.
The men caucused that first day, and in a meeting that concluded with a sacred oath, bade me take my place along with them, swearing to give me the utmost privacy they could provide. They would be my brothers. I was no longer to be called Miss Doyle, but Charlotte.
I was given a hammock placed in a corner. Around this a piece of torn sail was tacked up as a kind of curtain. The space was private for me, and kept that way.
True, I heard—and learned—their rough language. I confess too that in my newfound freedom I brandished a few bold terms of my own—to the amusement of the men at first. But after a while, it became rather second nature to me, and to them. I say this not to brag, but to suggest the complete absorption I felt in my new life. I came to feel a sense of exhilaration in it such as I had never felt before.
Thus it was that after a fortnight, I found myself atop the foremast, hugging the topgallant spar, my bare brown feet nimbly balancing on the foot ropes. It was seven bells of the second dog watch, just before dusk. The wind was out of the northwest. Our sails were taut. Our studding sails were set.
Below, the ship’s bow—as though pulled by her winged figurehead—plunged repeatedly, stirring froth and foam. This rocking movement seemed effortless to me now, as if, like the ship’s namesake, we were flying. Not far off our starboard bow, dolphins chased the waves, flyers themselves.
My hair, uncombed for days, blew free in the salty air. My face, dark with weather, was creased with smile. I was squinting westward into the swollen face of a bloodred sun, which cast a shimmering golden road upon the sea; from where I perched it seemed we were sailing on that road in a dream. And there I was, joyous, new-made, liberated from a prison I’d thought was my proper place!
The only shadow on my happiness was Captain Jaggery. He came on deck infrequently, and when he did he was enveloped in the murkiest gloom.
Rarely did he speak to anyone but the mates—Mr. Hollybrass and Mister Johnson now—and only then to give orders or rebukes.
Naturally, the captain was the principal subject of endless scuttlebutt in the forecastle during off-watch times.
Ewing claimed there was tension between the captain and the first mate, because Mr. Hollybrass didn’t approve of Jaggery’s ways.
“Don’t you believe it,” said Keetch, who, if anything, had grown more tense since his demotion. “Hollybrass is glove to Jaggery’s hand.”
Fisk insisted Jaggery’s keeping below so much was only a case of his wanting to hide the welt on his face, of hiding himself in shame.
It was Grimes who swore he was pressing us to make a crossing in good time and so prove he’d done no wrong.
But it was Foley who said that I was the cause of the captain’s every move.
“What do you mean?” I demanded.
“I’ve seen him,” Foley insisted. “Studied him. He doesn’t come out unless it’s your watch. One eye keeps the ship in trim. But the other—”
“What?” I said, sensing already that he was right.
“He’s a
lways watching you,” Foley said, looking around at the others for confirmation. “And there’s nothing but hatred in his eye.”
The others nodded in agreement.
“But why?” I asked.
“He’s waiting, wanting you to make a mistake,” Morgan put in, taking a deep pull on his pipe, then filling the forecastle with its acrid smoke.
“What kind of mistake?” I asked.
“Something he can use against you. Something to set him right. Look here, Charlotte, you boxed him in.”
“I did?”
“It was that first moment you joined us. You mentioned your father, didn’t you? Said he’d approve of what you’ve done.”
“He would. He believes in justice.”
“Be that as it may, Jaggery didn’t know what to do. He gave way. Not a thing he likes, you know. So now I say he’s waiting for a mistake on your part to set himself back up.”
“I don’t intend to make a mistake,” I stated proudly.
Fisk spat upon the floor. “Neither does he.”
It came to pass as Morgan promised.
To a person on land the sight of a ship’s sails, bleached by sun, stretched by wind, is the very image of airy lightness. In fact, a sail is made of very heavy canvas. When one gets tangled on a spar it must be pulled loose quickly or it can tear or burst, and in so doing, pull down rigging, spars, even a mast. A sail out of control can flick like a wild whip and send a full-grown sailor into a senseless spin. It often happens.
Now the flying jib is set at the furthest point of the bowsprit—at the very tip of it. When you consider that the bow of a speeding ship on a high sea forever rises and falls, you will perceive that a broken jib can dip into the sea itself. Such is the water’s force and the driving of the ship, that the bowsprit itself can be caused to snap. Thus the sailor who seeks to repair a tangled jib must contend not only with a heavy, flailing sail, but the powerful, rushing sea only a few feet—sometimes closer—below him.
One afternoon—two days after our forecastle talk and during my watch—the flying jib became entangled in just the way I have described. As soon as he saw it, Captain Jaggery cried, “Mister Doyle! Fix the bowsprit!” In his haste to call on me, he spoke directly, not through one of his mates.