But—if it had not been Barlow, there must have been a second person, someone to place the head where I’d seen it. Once I put my mind to that possibility, I realized with a start that, yes, I had seen two faces.
The first one—I was mortally certain—had been a human’s, belonging to the person who snuffed out the candle and who then, under cover of dark, set up the carving to deceive and frighten me.
Though I prided myself on my ability to remember sights and sounds, I was unable to make a match at all between that face and any man I had seen among the crew. Someone new? That was impossible. We were at sea. Visitors did not stop to call!
Very well then, I reasoned, the person in the hold had to be someone I’d simply not recognized. After all, my sighting was the quickest of glimpses. But if I could not identify who it was then the next question became: why had he shown himself?
Why indeed? To frighten me! I had no doubt about that. Well then, to what end? To make me think that what I’d seen was not real? I recalled Barlow’s words: perhaps I was being warned.
But why, I wondered, should anyone want to warn me? True, I had been told not to board the ship. And Zachariah’s words concerning the crew and their desire to be revenged on Captain Jaggery for his so-called cruelty were unnerving—even if I did not believe them. Then too, I reminded myself of the captain’s own warning that the black man was given to exaggeration.
There were too many puzzles. Too many complexities. Unable to fathom the mystery I ended up scolding my self, convinced that I was making something out of nothing.
This then was my conclusion: it was I who had not seen properly. The candle—I decided—must have been blown out by a sudden current of air. As for the carving, no doubt it had been there all along. I simply had not noticed it.
Thus I forced myself to believe that I had acted the part of a foolish schoolgirl too apt to make the worst of strange surroundings. And so I found a way to set aside my worries and fears.
“There now,” I said aloud, “the proof is this: has anything bad really happened?” To this I was forced to say: discomfort, well yes; but ill treatment? No, not really.
Still, I wondered if I should inform Captain Jaggery. Had he not just asked me to tell him of anything untoward? Had I not agreed?
Upon careful reflection, I decided to remain silent. If I were to go to the captain with such a tale he would think me a sorry, troublesome child. That was the last thing I desired.
Such thoughts led me to consider my most pleasant talk during tea with him. He had left me in quite a different frame of mind than Zachariah had.
Captain Jaggery and Mr. Zachariah! Such unlike men! And yet, quite suddenly I was struck by the thought that each of them, in his own way, was courting me.
Courting me! I could not help but smile. Well no, not courting in the real sense. But surely courting me for friendship.
What a queer notion! But I must confess, it filled me with smug pleasure. I resolved to stay on the good side of both men. No harm there, I told myself. Quite the contrary. It was the safest course. I would be everybody’s friend, though—need I say?—infinitely more partial to the captain.
With my morning’s adventures so resolved, I—for the first time since my arrival on the Seahawk—felt good!
But I was hungry. After all, I still had not really eaten for several days. Neither Zachariah’s hardtack nor the captain’s biscuits had been very nourishing. Just the thought made my stomach growl. I decided to return to the cook and request a decent meal.
But before I went, I had one more task to perform. At the moment it seemed trifling enough, though momentous it proved to be. I took up the dirk that had caused me so much anxiety and—since it had no sheath—wrapped it in one of my own handkerchiefs and placed it again in my pocket, determined to fling all into the ocean.
At that fateful moment, however, I paused, recollecting that both Captain Jaggery and Zachariah had urged me to keep the weapon. What if each chanced to ask of it again?
Here I reminded myself that a few moments before—when I’d been frightened—I had found a need of it, or at least I thought I’d needed it to defend myself.
Finally, with the notion of pleasing both captain and cook, I returned the knife—still wrapped in my handkerchief—to its hiding place under my mattress. As far as I was concerned, it could stay there and be forgotten.
Alas, such would not be the case.
Chapter Eight
Having made up my mind to forget what had happened, I passed the next seven days in comparative tranquility. By the end of the week I grew so firm in my footing that I hardly noticed the pitch and roll of the ship, nor minded the ever-present damp.
During this same time the weather held. No storms came our way. Though days were not always bright and clear, we ran before a steady wind that graced our helm and ruffled our hair. With every sail bent we were making good progress, or so Captain Jaggery assured me. In my ignorance I even stood above the figurehead in hopes of seeing land. Naturally, all I saw was an empty, unchanging, and boundless sea. One day seemed much like an other:
At the end of the morning watch, sometime toward six bells, I would wake. Now I had been taught that at the start of each day I should present myself as a proper young gentlewoman to my parents, or, when at school, to the headmistress. On shipboard it was only natural that the captain should be the one I wished to please. But it must be said that preparing to appear on deck was not easy. My day began with a search—usually successful—for fleas. Afterward came a brushing of my hair for a full twenty minutes (I did the same at night). Finally, I parted it carefully, wanting it smoothly drawn—anything to keep it from its natural and to me obnoxious wildness.
Then I dressed. Unfortunately my starched clothing had gone everlastingly limp and became increasingly soiled. Hardly a button remained in place. Though I tried not to touch anything, those white gloves of mine had turned the color of slate.
So dirty did I become that I resolved that one of my four dresses would be saved—neat and clean—for my disembarkation in Providence. It was a great comfort to me to know I would not shame my family.
If I wanted to wash things—and I did try—I had to do it myself, something I’d never been required to do before. Moreover, to do washing on ship meant hauling a bucket of seawater up to the deck. Fortunately, the captain was willing to order the men to lift water for me on demand.
Breakfast was set out in steerage, at the mates’ mess. Served by Zachariah, it consisted of badly watered coffee and hard bread with a dab of molasses, though as days passed, the molasses grew foul. Dinner at midday was the same. Supper was boiled salted meats, rice, beans, and again bad coffee. Twice a week we might have duff, the seaman’s delight: boiled flour and raisins.
In the evenings I retired to my room to write the particulars of the day in my journal, after which I walked out to gaze at the stars. So many, many stars! And then to bed.