“It’s over!” I said breathlessly.
Mr. Johnson shook his head. “Nothing like!” he warned. “It’s the eye of the storm. There’ll only be a pause. And it’ll be back in twenty minutes going the other way. But, God willing, if we can clear the deck we may be able to ride it out!”
I looked up at our remaining mast. Only the topgallant was left. The other sails had been cut loose.
Working frantically we reached the bottom of the pile. It was Foley who pulled away the last torn sail. There, beneath it, lay Mr. Hollybrass, face down. A knife was stuck in his back, plunged so deeply only the scrimshaw handle could be seen. I recognized the design of a star. This was the dirk Zachariah had given me.
The sight of the dead Mr. Hollybrass—for it was certain that such was the case—left us all dumbfounded. But after all we’d been through in the storm it’s hardly to be wondered that we made no response. We were too drained. Too numb.
“What is it?” came a voice. We turned to see Captain Jaggery. He was looking much like the rest of us, wild and disheveled.
We stepped aside. No one said a word. He came forward. For a moment he too did nothing but stare at the body. Then he knelt and touched the man’s face, the back of his neck.
For a moment he hesitated, then pulled Mr. Hollybrass’s arm from where it lay twisted under his body. The dead man clutched something in his hand. The captain managed to pry the fingers open, and plucked away what Mr. Hollybrass had been holding. He held it up.
It was my handkerchief.
The captain now used that handkerchief to grasp the handle of the knife and pull it from the dead man’s back. He stood up. He was looking directly at me.
At last he turned toward the sky. It was darkening again. And the sea had begun to heave in growing swells. “We shall have fifteen more minutes before the storm returns,” he announced. “I want this body removed and placed in the steerage. In the available time the rest of you clear the deck. Mr. Johnson’s watch shall man the pumps first. Two from Mr. Hollybrass’s watch will hold the wheel and the rest can stay in the forecastle. I will call the rotation. Now, quickly!”
The captain’s orders were carried out in silence. Dillingham and Grimes took Mr. Hollybrass’s body below. The rest of us roamed the decks alone or in pairs, flinging broken bits of mast, sail, and spar into the sea, or trying to tie down what was possible to save by lashing it on deck.
I followed along, doing what I could, my mind a jumble. Not a word was spoken regarding Mr. Hollybrass or his death. As extraordinary as the event was, there was no time, no mind to consider it.
As predicted, the storm struck within the quarter hour and with as much fury as before. But the Seahawk, with one mast and but a single sail hung, was more fit to ride it out.
I rushed to the top cargo, where the pumps were. They were simple suction pumps, each capable of being worked by as few as two. But four we were, Grimes, Keetch, Mr. Johnson, and myself, who heaved the handles in the cold, wet, and lurching darkness, as though our lives depended upon it—which they did.
Again the Seahawk became a mere toy to the elements. Wind shrieked and howled; more than once water poured over us from above, or the ship heeled to the gunwales, bringing hearts to mouths. For the merest second we would balance on the brink of capsizing while we pumped with greater will than ever. It was as if that rhythmic action was the true beating of our own hearts—as if, were we to stop for more than a moment, the heart of the ship might cease all beating too.
To work meant to live. And work we did for upwards of three hours. Then we were released.
I was sent to the forecastle to rest along with Morgan, Barlow, and Fisk. Morgan searched for his tobacco pouch, but most personal belongings were flung about and broken, and those still whole were soaking wet. He swore in frustration.
“Be glad you’re breathing air, lad,” Fisk said wearily.
Chilled to the bone, exhausted, I tumbled into a hammock and tried to sleep. But I’d hardly closed my eyes before I was called out again. Now I was to stand to the wheel. The captain was there—to his credit he remained at the helm throughout the storm—calling upon us to attempt this adjustment, or that, anything to keep our stern toward the wind.
Barlow, my partner, did most of the work. Great strength was wanted just to hold the wheel steady. Whatever strength I had was fast ebbing.
I was frozen, miserable. It did not matter. From duty at the wheel I returned to the pumps. From the pumps to the forecastle. Thence again to the wheel. Round and again, perhaps three times in all. I lost count.
At last—some seventeen hours after we’d first been called out—the storm abated. I was allowed to return to my hammock where, spent and shivering, I closed my eyes. On the edge of sleep I suddenly recalled the visitation of Zachariah and the demise of Mr. Hollybrass. This thought of the dead served to remind me that I was still alive. And that consolation eased my body and calmed my mind. Within seconds I slept the sleep of the dead who wait—with perfect equanimity—upon the final judgment.
IT WAS FOURTEEN HOURS BEFORE I WOKE. IF I’D KNOWN THAT MUCH TIME HAD PASSED I’D HAVE REALIZED SOMETHING WAS amiss. No matter what the circumstances, it’s irregular for any member of a crew to be allowed to sleep so long.
For the moment, however, I remained in my hammock, blithely assuming it was simply not yet time for my normal watch. The canvas curtain had been restrung and was drawn closed … but that was the type of kindness Barlow or Ewing would have done. The familiar sounds of the running ship comforted me. And the truth is, despite the fact that my shirt and trousers were still damp, my body one great ache, I was enjoying my rest, thanking God and Zachariah I was alive.
Suddenly I sat up. But Zachariah died! I had seen him beaten to death, committed to the sea. Was it his ghost then who had saved me? I remembered thinking of an angel. Had I hallucinated the moment? Made a story of it for myself? It was like the kind of forecastle yarn I’d heard the sailors tell so often. I had not believed them. Not then. And yet—what was I to think other than that a miracle had transpired? That—I told myself—was absurd. But I had not imagined it. I remembered the man’s iron grip. Someone had helped me. Someone other than Zachariah. It had to be. But who?
I reached from my hammock and drew back the canvas curtain. I was alone. Puzzled, I got up quickly and ran from the forecastle onto the deck.
What I saw was as perfect a sky as any deepwater sailor could wish. The sun was warm, the breeze, out of the west, strong and even. And the deck was in good order, as if the storm had been but a dream. Even the foremast and bowsprit were fully rigged, their sails taut. Only the jagged stump of the mainmast—on the quarterdeck—stood testimony to the last twenty-four hours.
How much the men had accomplished while I slept! I felt forgotten.
There was Barlow. There was Morgan. Foley. It was my watch to be on duty. But why hadn’t I been called? Then I realized that both watches were on deck. When I saw Ewing and Keetch working near at hand I went to them.
“Ewing,” I called. “Keetch.”
Both men turned about. Instead of giving me his regular, casual greeting, “Morning to you, lass!” Ewing stopped his work and gaped at me with a frown that signaled … I knew not what. It gave me sudden pause. I glanced at Keetch, whose pinched face bore his familiar rabbit look of fear. But like Ewing, he said nothing.
“Why wasn’t I called?” I asked.
“Called?” Ewing echoed dumbly.
“My watch.”
They offered no explanation.
“Answer me!”
Ewing sighed. “Charlotte, we were told not to.”
“Told? Who told you?”
“It’s not for us to say, miss …” Keetch whispered.
“You’re not to call me miss!” I cried out in exasperation. “Are you going to tell me or not?”
Ewing looked at me reluctantly. “It’s … Hollybrass. His … murder.”
I had put that completely out of my mind.
/>
“What’s that to do with not calling me?” I demanded, drawing closer.
Ewing sprang up and backed away—as if frightened. I turned to Keetch but he seemed suddenly absorbed in his work.
“Something else has happened, hasn’t it?” I said, more and more apprehensive. “What is it?”
“It’s the captain, miss …” Keetch began.
“Charlotte!” I broke in angrily.
Keetch drew a hand across his mouth as if to stop it.
“What has happened!” I persisted. “Are you going to tell me or not? Is it some secret?”
Ewing licked his lips. Keetch seemed to be avoiding my eyes. But it was he who said, “The captain told us, when we was committing Hollybrass to the sea, that”—now his darting eyes flicked toward me, then away—“it was you … that … murdered him.”
My breath all but failed. “Me?” I managed to get out.
“Aye, you.”
“Who could believe such a thing?” I exclaimed. “How? Why?”
“To avenge Zachariah’s death,” Ewing whispered.
I stood there, open-mouthed. “But Zachariah …” I began, not even sure what I was about to say.
The former second mate looked around at me, his eyes narrowed. “What about Zachariah?” he asked, standing up.
“He’s dead,” I said lamely.
“He’s all of that,” Ewing agreed.
Keetch began to move away quickly. Ewing started to follow. I grabbed his arm.
“Ewing,” I said. “Do you think I did it?”
He shook his arm free. “Captain says that dirk was yours.”
“Ewing … I left that dirk in my old cabin.”
“That’s what captain said you’d say.”
I took in his meaning. “You believe him, don’t you?”
He studied his hand.
“And the others?” I wanted to know.
“You’ll have to ask them.”
Deeply shaken, I started for the galley in search of Fisk but changed my mind. It was Captain Jaggery I had to see.
I turned and headed for his cabin. But before I had taken five steps I was confronted by the captain himself coming to the quarterdeck. I stopped in surprise. The man before me was not the same Captain Andrew Jaggery I’d seen on the quarterdeck the first day we sailed. True, he still wore his fine clothes, but the jacket was soiled and showed any number of rips. A cuff was frayed, a button gone. Small points perhaps, but not for a man of his fastidiousness. And the whip mark, though no longer so pronounced, had become a thin white line—like a persistent, painful memory.
“Miss Doyle,” the captain proclaimed for all to hear, “I charge you in the willful murder of Mr. Hollybrass.”
I turned to appeal to the crew—only recently my comrades—who stood looking on.
“I did not do it,” I said.
“Have no fear, Miss Doyle. You shall have a jury of your peers. And a speedy trial.”
“It’s a lie,” I said.
“Mr. Barlow,” the captain called, never for a moment turning his cold eyes from me.
Barlow shuffled forward.
“Take the prisoner to the brig,” the captain said, offering up a key that Barlow took. “Miss Doyle, your trial for murder will commence at the first bell of the first dog watch today.”
“Come along, miss,” Barlow whispered.
I shrank back.
“Easy, Charlotte,” he went on, “I’ll not do you harm.”
His words reassured me somewhat. But no other words of comfort came.
The central hatch cover was slid back. Barlow beckoned me to it and under the eyes of all he followed me down the ladder.
We passed by the top cargo—where Barlow lit a lantern—then groped our way into the hold, the bottom of the ship. I had avoided even thinking of the place since the incident of the false head. As far as I could see—which was not very far—it was like some long-forgotten, tunneled dwelling faced with great wood timbers and rough planking grown corrupt with green slime. The area was crammed with barrels and cases, among which only a narrow passageway of planking had been left. Barlow led me forward as the blackened bilge lapped below. The stench was loathsome.
A few feet ahead I saw the brig, not so much a room as a cage of iron bars with a gate for a door. I could make out a stool for sitting. A pan for slops. Nothing more. Had Cranick, poor man, been its last inhabitant?
Barlow unlocked the rusty padlock on the gate. It took a yanking to free it.
“You’ll want to go in,” he said.
I hesitated. “You’ll leave the light, won’t you?” I asked.
Barlow shook his head. “If it tumbled we’d have a fire.”
“But it will be completely dark.”
He shrugged.
I stepped inside. Barlow closed the gate and locked it. For a moment I just stood helplessly, watching him move away. Suddenly frightened, I called, “Barlow!”
He paused to peer back over a shoulder.
“Do you think I killed Mr. Hollybrass?”
He considered for a moment. “I don’t know, Charlotte,” he said wearily.
“You must think someone did,” I cried, wanting to hold him there as much as I wanted answers.
“I don’t know as I allow myself to think,” he offered and made hastily for the ladder.
Utterly discouraged, I remained standing in the dark. All about me I heard the hollow groans of the ship, the cargo creaking, water dripping and sloshing, rustling, a sudden squeaking of rats.
Nearly sick with fright I felt about for the stool. I sank down upon it, reminding myself I wouldn’t have to stay there for long. Captain Jaggery had promised a trial for that very day. But what kind of trial? Zachariah’s words filled my head, that a captain is sheriff, judge, jury … and hangman too.
Shivering, I bent over and hugged myself to my knees. Without the crew on my side I would be hard put to prove my innocence. I knew that. Yet they seemed to have turned against me. Of all misfortunes that was the most hurtful to bear.
I shifted the stool so I could lean back against the rear bars of the brig, then closed my eyes against the dark. I ran my fingers through my hair but the gesture only reminded me I’d hacked it short. For a brief moment I caught a distant vision of myself as I had been before the Seahawk, before this tumultuous voyage. Was it days or years that had passed since?
I was speculating thus when I heard a different kind of noise. At first I ignored it. But when it came again, a slow, hesitant sound, almost like a human step, I opened my eyes wide and stared into the dark. Was this too my imagination?
The sound drew closer. My heart began to pound. “Who’s there!” I called out.
After a moment I heard, “Charlotte? Is that you?”
I leaped to my feet.
“Who is it?” I cried.
By way of answer the shuffling drew closer, then suddenly stopped. Now I was certain I heard labored breathing. A spark burst forth. Then a tiny light. Before me loomed the ancient head of Zachariah.
HIS FACE APPEARED TO BE FLOATING IN AIR. TERRIFIED, I COULD ONLY STARE INTO HIS hollow and unseeing eyes, for so they seemed in the flickering light.
“Is that you, Charlotte?” came a voice. His voice.
“What are you?” I managed to ask.
The head drew closer. “Don’t you know me?” the voice said.
I stammered, “Are you … real?”
“Charlotte, don’t you see me?” came the voice, more insistent than before. Now the light—it was a small candle—was held up and I could see more of him. The very image of Zachariah—but sadly altered too. In life he had never appeared strong or large. In death he’d become shriveled, gray-bearded.
“What do you want?” I demanded, shrinking back into the furthest corner of the brig.
“To help you,” the voice said.
“But you died,” I whispered. “I saw your funeral. They wrapped you in your hammock and dropped you into the sea.”
/> A soft laugh. His laugh. “Close to death surely, Charlotte, but not altogether dead. Come, touch me. See for yourself.”
Cautiously, I moved forward, reached out, and touched his hand. Real flesh. And warmth. “And the hammock?” I wondered in astonishment.
He laughed again. “A full hammock to be sure, but empty of me. It’s an old sailor’s trick. No doubt if I’d remained in Jaggery’s hands I would have died.”
“Have you been in the hold all along?”
“Ever since.”
I could only stare.
“Keetch brings me food and water every day,” he continued. “The food’s not as good as I would have prepared, but enough to keep me alive. Look here, Charlotte, if poor Cranick could hide, why not Zachariah? It was Keetch’s notion.”
“Why wasn’t I told?”
“It was decided not to tell you.”
“Why?”
“You forget, Charlotte—you informed upon us.”
“That was then, Zachariah,” I said, my face burning.
“True enough. And I have been told about you, young soul of justice. There’s much to be admired. I salute you.”
“I wanted to fill your place.”
He smiled. “Didn’t I once say how much we were alike? A prophecy! But you’re not regretting I’m alive, are you?”
“No, of course not. But if I hadn’t caught sight of you during the storm would I ever have seen you?”
“I cannot say.”
“The captain might have discovered you then. Why did you come up?”
“What would be the point of staying here and perishing when I could have been of help?”
“You saved me from falling.”
“One shipmate helps another.”
“But what about Captain Jaggery?” I asked. “Does he know you’re here?”
“Now, Charlotte, do you think if he believed me alive he’d allow me here for even a moment? Do you?”
“I suppose not,” I admitted.
“There you are. That’s all the proof I need that he doesn’t know. The hope is this,” he went on. “When the Seahawk reaches Providence—not very long from now, I understand—you shall see, Jaggery will keep the crew on board, not wanting them to talk to anyone. But I’ll be able to get off. And when I do I’ll go to the authorities to expose him for what he is. Now what do you think?”