Timidly, I climbed the steps to the quarterdeck for a better look. Now I realized that the crew was clustered around something—it looked to be a sack—that lay upon the deck. On closer examination I realized it was a canvas hammock such as the men slept in. This one was twisted around itself and had an odd, bulky shape.
No one took notice of me as I stood by the forward rail. Gradually, I perceived that Fisk was saying a prayer. In a flash I understood: the hammock was wrapped about a body. And that body had to be Zachariah’s. He had died of the beating. I had come upon his funeral. The men were about to commit his body to the sea.
Fisk’s prayer was not a long one, but he delivered it slowly, and what I heard of it was laced with bitterness, a calling on God to avenge them as they, poor sailors, could not avenge themselves.
When Fisk had done, Ewing, Mr. Keetch, Grimes, and Johnson bent over and picked the hammock up. Hardly straining at the weight they bore, they advanced to the starboard railing, and then, emitting a kind of grunt in unison, they heaved their burden over. Seconds later there was a splash followed by murmurs of “amen … amen.”
I shuddered.
Fisk said a final short prayer. At last they all turned about—and saw me.
I was unable to move. They were staring at me with what I could only take as loathing.
“I … I am sorry,” was the best I could stammer. No one replied. The words drifted into the air and died.
“I didn’t realize …” I started to say, but could not finish. Tears were streaming from my eyes. I bowed my head and began to sob.
Then I heard, “Miss Doyle …”
I continued to cry.
“Miss Doyle,” came the words again.
I forced myself to look up. It was Fisk, his countenance more fierce than usual. “Go to the captain,” he said brusquely. “He is your friend.”
“He’s not!” I got out between my sniffling. “I want nothing to do with him! I hate him!”
Fisk lifted a fist, but let it drop with weariness.
“And I want to help you,” I offered. “To show how sorry I am.”
They merely stared.
“Please …” I looked from him to the others. I saw no softening.
Brokenhearted, I groped my way down to my cabin, pausing only to look upon the captain’s closed door.
Once alone I again gave way to hot tears. Not only did I feel completely isolated, but something worse: I was certain that all the terrible events of the day—the death of two men!—had been caused by me. Though I could find a reason for Cranick’s death, I could hardly blame anyone but myself for the murder of Zachariah! It was I—despite clear warnings—who had refused to see Captain Jaggery as the villainous man he was, I who had fired his terrible wrath by reporting to him Ewing’s pistol, the round robin, and the stowaway.
Yet my newfound knowledge brought me no help with my need to do something.
I was still in my bed—it might have been an hour—when I heard the ship’s bell begin to clang. Then came a cry from Mr. Hollybrass. “All hands! All hands!”
I sat up and listened. My first thought was that perhaps a wind had risen, that this was a call to trim the ship. Yet I heard none of the welcome sounds—the breaking waves, the hum of wind in the sails—that would have come with a weather change.
Then I thought that some new fearfulness was upon us. Alarmed—but unable to keep myself from curiosity—I slipped from my bed and cautiously opened my door.
Once again I heard the bell clanging, and the cry, “All hands! All hands!”
Increasingly apprehensive, I stole into the steerage, then poked my head out so I could see the deck. The crew stood in the waist of the ship, looking up.
I crept forward.
Captain Jaggery was clutching the quarterdeck rail so tightly his knuckles were white. The welt across his face had turned crimson. It caused me pain just to see it.
Mr. Hollybrass was by his side.
“… meant what I said,” I heard the captain say.
“Through your own folly you’ve lost Zachariah,” he continued. “Not that he did much work. Not that any of you do. Mr. Fisk will assume Zachariah’s duties in the galley. As for Mr. Keetch, since he seems to prefer serving you rather than me … I place him in the forecastle where he will be more comfortable. The position of second mate, thus vacated, I give to Mr. Johnson. He, at least, had the dog’s wit not to sign your round robin. Mr. Johnson’s position on his watch … you all will be responsible for that. I don’t care how you do it, but each watch shall be filled with a full complement of four plus mate.”
These words—the last of which I did not understand—were met at first by stony silence.
It was a moment or two later that Morgan stepped forward. “Request permission to speak, sir.” I think I had never before heard his voice.
The captain turned slightly, glowered at the man, but nodded.
“Captain Jaggery, sir,” Morgan called out. “Nowhere is it written that a captain can require a man to work more than one watch. Only in an emergency.”
The captain gazed at Morgan for a moment. Then he said, “Very well Mr. Morgan, then I do say it: this is an emergency. If these orders cause inconvenience, blame it on your darling Mr. Cranick. Or the impertinence of Mr. Zachariah. And if you still have so much pity on these fools, you can work the extra shift yourself.”
So saying, he turned to Mr. Hollybrass. “Set the second watch to scrape the bow until a wind comes up. Dismiss the rest,” he barked.
Mr. Hollybrass turned to the crew, and repeated the captain’s commands.
Without a word, the men backed off, some shuffling to the bow to work, the others ducking below into the forecastle. All that remained on deck was the stain of Cranick’s blood.
Uncertainly, I made my way to the galley. Fisk was already there, his great bulk filling the small space as Zachariah never had. I stood just beyond the entryway hoping he would notice me. When he didn’t I whispered, “Mr. Fisk …”
He turned but offered nothing more than a hostile glare.
“What did the captain mean?” I asked, my voice small.
Fisk continued to stare bleakly at me.
“Tell me,” I pleaded. “I have to know.”
“The crew was short to begin with,” he said. “Now he’s insulted me. Advanced Johnson. Dumped Keetch. All in all it leaves us shorter than before. The captain intends to work us till we drop.”
“Can I … can I help in any way?”
“You?” Fisk said with incredulous scorn. He turned away.
“Mr. Fisk, you must believe me. I want to help.”
“You are the lady passenger, Miss Doyle. The informer.”
My tears began to fall again. “I had no idea …”
Now angry, he swung about. “I find Miss Doyle mistaken. You did have an idea. You had it from Zachariah. I know you did. He told us he tried to convince you. ‘Oh, Miss Doyle believes in honor,’ he’d say. ‘She’s the very soul of justice!’ ” Fisk spat on the floor. “Honor! What you mean to say, Miss Doyle, is that you didn’t choose to heed his words because Zachariah was an old black who lacked the captain’s graces!”
I bowed my head.
“Can you cook?” he growled. “Reef sails? Turn the wheel? I think not, miss. So you’d do best keeping the place you have. When you reach Providence you can walk off free and, I warrant, you’ll think no more on us.”
“That’s not true!”
“Go to the captain, Miss Doyle. He’s your darling master.”
“Mr. Fisk,” I begged, my voice as small as my pride, “the captain will have nothing to do with me.”
“No, he’ll not forgive you so soon. Beware your friend, Miss Doyle, beware him!”
“I didn’t mean—”
He cut me off abruptly. “Gentlefolk like you never mean, Miss Doyle. But what you do …”
I could not bear it anymore. I retreated to my cabin. Once again I gave myself up to guilt and remor
se.
That night I remained in my cabin. I couldn’t eat. Now and again I slept, but never for long. There were times I fell on my knees to pray for forgiveness. But it was from the crew as much as God that I sought pardon. If only I could make restitution, if only I could convince the men that I accepted my responsibility.
Close to dawn an idea began to form, at first only an echo of something Fisk had said. But the mere thought of it was appalling and I kept pushing it away. Yet again and again it flooded back, overwhelming all other notions.
At last I heaved myself off the bed, and from under it brought out the canvas seaman’s garments Zachariah had made for me. Some roaches skittered away. I held the wrinkled clothing up and looked at its crude shape, its mean design. The feel of the crude cloth made me falter.
I closed my eyes. My heart was beating painfully as if I were in some great danger. No, I could not. It was too awful. Yet I told myself I must accept my responsibility so as to prove to those men that it had been my head that was wrong, not my heart. Slowly, fearfully, I made myself take off my shoes, my stockings, my apron, at last my dress and linen.
With fumbling, nervous hands I put on the seaman’s clothing. The trousers and shirt felt stiff, heavy, like some skin not my own. My bare toes curled upon the wooden floor.
I stood some while to question my heart. Zachariah’s words to Fisk, that I was the “very soul of justice” echoed within me.
I stepped out of my cabin and crept through the steerage. It was dawn. To the distant east, I could see the thinnest edge of sun. All else remained dark. I moved to the galley, praying I would meet no one before I reached it. For once my prayers were answered. I was not noticed. And Fisk was working at the stove.
I paused at the doorway. “Mr. Fisk,” I whispered.
He straightened up, turned, saw me. I had, at least, the satisfaction of his surprise.
“I’ve come,” I managed to say, “to be one of the crew.”
FOR A SECOND TIME I STOOD IN THE FORECASTLE. THE ROOM WAS AS DARK AND MEAN AS WHEN I’d first seen it. Now, however, I stood as a petitioner in sailor’s garb. A glum Fisk was at my side. It hadn’t been easy to convince him I was in earnest about becoming one of the crew. Even when he begrudged a willingness to believe in my sincerity he warned that agreement from the rest of the men would be improbable. He insisted I lay the matter before them immediately.
So it was that three men from Mr. Hollybrass’s watch, Grimes, Dillingham, and Foley, were the next to hear my plea. As Fisk had foretold, they were contemplating me and my proposal with very little evidence of favor.
“I do mean it,” I said, finding boldness with repetition, “I want to be the replacement for Mr. Johnson.”
“You’re a girl,” Dillingham spat out contemptuously.
“A pretty girl,” Foley put in. It was not meant as a compliment. “Takes more than canvas britches to hide that.”
“And a gentlewoman,” was Grimes’s addition, as though that was the final evidence of my essential uselessness.
“I want to show that I stand with you,” I pleaded. “That I made a mistake.”
“A mistake?” Foley snapped. “Two able-bodied men have died!”
“Besides,” Dillingham agreed, “you’ll bring more trouble than good.”
“You can teach me,” I offered.
“God’s fist,” Grimes cried. “She thinks this a school!”
“And the captain,” Foley asked. “What’ll he say?”
“He wants nothing to do with me,” I replied.
“That’s what he says. But you were his darling girl, Miss Doyle. We takes you in and he’ll want you back again. Where will that put us?”
So it went, round and round. While the men made objections, while I struggled to answer them, Fisk said nothing.
Though I tried to keep my head up, my eyes steady, it was not easy. They looked at me as if I were some loathsome thing. At the same time, the more objections they made, the more determined I was to prove myself.
“See here, Miss Doyle,” Dillingham concluded, “it’s no simple matter. Understand, you sign on to the articles, so to speak, and you are on. No bolting to safe harbors at the first blow or when an ill word is flung your way. You’re a hand or you’re not a hand, and it won’t go easy, that’s all that can ever be promised.”
“I know,” I said.
“Hold out your hands,” he demanded.
Fisk nudged me. I held them out, palms up.
Foley peered over them. “Like bloody cream,” he said with disgust. “Touch mine!” he insisted and extended his. Gingerly, I touched one of them. His skin was like rough leather.
“That’s the hands you’d get, miss. Like an animal. Is that what you want?”
“I don’t care,” I said stoutly.
Finally it was Dillingham who said, “And are you willing to take your place in the rigging too? Fair weather or foul?”
That made me pause.
Fisk caught the hesitation. “Answer,” he prompted.
“Yes,” I said boldly.
They exchanged glances. Then Foley asked, “What do the others think?”
Fisk shook his head and sighed. “No doubt they’ll speak the same.”
Suddenly Grimes said, “Here’s what I say: let her climb to the royal yard. If she does it and comes down whole, and still is willing to serve, then I say let her sign and be bloody damned like the rest of us.”
“And do whatever she’s called on to do!”
“No less!”
With no more than grunts the men seemed to agree among themselves. They turned toward me.
“Now what does Miss Doyle say?” Grimes demanded.
I swallowed hard, but all the same I gave yet another “Yes.”
Foley came to his feet. “All right then. I’ll go caucus the others.” Out he went.
Fisk and I retreated to the galley while I waited for word. During that time he questioned me regarding my determination.
“Miss Doyle,” he pressed, “you have agreed to climb to the top of the royal yard. Do you know that’s the highest sail on the main mast? One hundred and thirty feet up. You can reach it only two ways. You can shimmy up the mast itself. Or you can climb the shrouds, using the ratlines for your ladder.”
I nodded as if I fully grasped what he was saying. The truth was I didn’t even wish to listen. I just wanted to get past the test.
“And Miss Doyle,” he went on, “if you slip and fall you’ll be lucky to drop into the sea and drown quickly. No mortal could pluck you out fast enough to save you. Do you understand that?”
I swallowed hard but nodded. “Yes.”
“Because if you’re not lucky you’ll crash to the deck. Fall that way and you’ll either maim or kill yourself by breaking your neck. Still certain?”
“Yes,” I repeated, though somewhat more softly.
“I’ll give you this,” he said with a look that seemed a mix of admiration and contempt, “Zachariah was right. You’re as steady a girl as ever I’ve met.”
Foley soon returned. “We’re agreed,” he announced. “Not a one stands in favor of your signing on, Miss Doyle. Not with what you are. We’re all agreed to that. But if you climb as high as the royal yard and make it down whole, and if you still want to sign on, you can come as equal. You’ll get no more from us, Miss Doyle, but no less either.”
Fisk looked at me for my answer.
“I understand,” I said.
“All right then,” Foley said. “The captain’s still in his cabin and not likely to come out till five bells. You can do it now.”
“Now?” I quailed.
“Now before never.”
So it was that the four men escorted me onto the deck. There I found that the rest of the crew had already gathered.
Having fully committed myself, I was overwhelmed by my audacity. The masts had always seemed tall, of course, but never so tall as they did at that moment. When I reached the deck and looked up my courage
all but crumbled. My stomach turned. My legs grew weak.
Not that it mattered. Fisk escorted me to the mast as though I were being led to die at the stake. He seemed as grim as I.
To grasp fully what I’d undertaken to do, know again that the height of the mainmast towered one hundred and thirty feet from the deck. This mast was, in fact, three great rounded lengths of wood, trees, in truth, affixed one to the end of the other. Further, it supported four levels of sails, each of which bore a different name. In order, bottom to top, these were called the main yard, topsail, topgallant, and finally royal yard.
My task was to climb to the top of the royal yard. And come down. In one piece. If I succeeded I’d gain the opportunity of making the climb fifty times a day.
As if reading my terrified thoughts Fisk inquired gravely, “How will you go, Miss Doyle? Up the mast or on the ratlines?”
Once again I looked up. I could not possibly climb the mast directly. The stays and shrouds with their ratlines would serve me better.
“Ratlines,” I replied softly.
“Then up you go.”
I will confess it, at that moment my nerves failed. I found myself unable to move. With thudding heart I looked frantically around. The members of the crew, arranged in a crescent, were standing like death’s own jury.
It was Barlow who called out, “A blessing goes with you, Miss Doyle.”
To which Ewing added, “And this advice, Miss Doyle. Keep your eyes steady on the ropes. Don’t you look down. Or up.”
For the first time I sensed that some of them at least wanted me to succeed. The realization gave me courage.
With halting steps and shallow breath, I approached the rail only to pause when I reached it. I could hear a small inner voice crying, “Don’t! Don’t!”
But it was also then that I heard Dillingham snicker, “She’ll not have the stomach.”
I reached up, grasped the lowest deadeye, and hauled myself atop the rail. That much I had done before. Now, I maneuvered to the outside so that I would be leaning into the rigging and could even rest on it.
Once again I looked at the crew, down at them, I should say. They were staring up with blank expressions.