Sundays were remarkable only in that religious observances were briefly held. The captain kindly allowed me to read a biblical passage to the men before he offered reminders of their duty to ship and God. Sundays were also the one day of the week on which the men shaved—if at all—and washed their clothes, some times.
With no chores to perform I spent the bulk of my day in idleness. I could wander at will from galley to forecastle deck, mates’ mess to wheel, but, try as I might not to show it, I was sorely bored.
It should be no surprise that the high point of my day was tea with the captain. It was a cherished reminder of the world as I knew it. He always showed interest in what I had to say, in particular my observations of the crew. So flattered was I by his attentions that I took pains to search for things to tell him and then prattled away. Unfortunately tea lasted only from one bell to the next, a mere half an hour. Too soon I had to return to the less congenial world of the crew.
I did take care—at first—to keep my distance from them, believing it not proper for me to mingle. My one friendly gesture was to read uplifting selections to them from my books. As the days wore on, however, it was increasingly difficult to refrain from some degree of intimacy. I could not help it. I’ve always been social by nature. In any case I concluded that I was simply doing what the captain had suggested, in fact, kept urging—that is, keeping a lookout for any act or word that hinted of criticism or hostility.
Though I desired to make it clear that the crew and I were on different levels, I found myself spending more and more time in their company. In truth, I had endless questions to ask as to what this was and what was that. They in turn found in me a naive but eager recipient for their answers.
Then there were their yarns. I hardly knew nor cared which were true and which were not. Tales of castaways on Pacific atolls never failed to move me. Solemn accounts of angels and ghosts appearing miraculously in the rigging were, by turns, thrilling and terrifying. I learned the men’s language, their ways, their dreams. Above all, I cherished the notion that my contact with the crew improved them. As to what it did to me—I hardly guessed.
At first standoffish and suspicious, the crew began to accept me. I actually became something of a “ship’s boy,” increasingly willing—and able—to run their minor errands.
Of course there were places on the Seahawk where I did not venture. Though I returned several times to my trunk, and was not frightened again, I forebore exploring the hold. Barlow’s words—and my experience—were sufficient to scare me off.
The other place I shunned was the crew’s quarters, the forecastle area before the mast. That I understood to be off-limits.
But as I grew more comfortable, as the crew grew more comfortable with me, I mingled more often with them on deck. In time I even tried my hand and climbed—granted neither very high nor very far—into the rigging.
As might be expected I fastened particular attentions upon Zachariah. He had the most time to spend with me and had sought to be kind, of course, from the beginning. Being black, he was the butt of much cruel humor, which aroused my sympathy. At the same time, despite the crew’s verbal abuse, he was a great favorite, reputed to be a fine cook. Indeed his good opinion of me gained me—in the crew’s world—the license to be liked.
Zachariah was the eldest of the crew, and his life had been naught but sailing. When young, he had shipped as a common sailor, and he swore he’d been able to climb from deck to truck—top of the mainmast—in twenty seconds!
But all in all, as he himself freely told me, he was much the worse for his labor, and therefore grateful for his cook’s position which paid better than a common tar. For he was aging rapidly, and though he claimed no more than fifty years of age I thought him much older.
He had saved nothing of his wages. His knowledge—as far as I could tell—was limited to ship and sea. He knew not how to read, nor to write more than his mark. He knew little of true Christian religion. Indeed, as he confessed, he was much distressed as to the state of his soul and took comfort (as did others) in my reading aloud from the Bible, which they believed had the power to compel truth. In particular, it was the story of Jonah that had a hold on them.
Since Zachariah never mentioned the dirk, nor again spoke discourteously of the captain, I took it as an indication that he knew I would not condone such talk. This meant that our conversations were increasingly free and easy. It was he, more than anyone else, who encouraged me to engage with the crew.
“Miss Doyle has been kind to me,” he said to me one morning, “but if she’s to go scampering about she’ll need, for modesty and safety’s sake, something better than skirts.” So saying he presented me with a pair of canvas trousers and blouse, a kind of miniature of what the crew wore—garments he himself had made.
While I thanked him kindly, in fact I took the gift as a warning that I had been forgetting my station. I told him—rather stiffly, I fear—that I thought it not proper for me, a girl—a lady—to wear such apparel. But, so as not to offend too deeply, I took the blouse and trousers to my cabin.
Later on, I admit—I tried the garments on, finding them surprisingly comfortable until, shocked, I remembered myself. Hurriedly, I took them off, resolving not to stoop so low again.
I resolved more. I determined to keep to my quarters and then and there spent two hours composing an essay in my blank book on the subject of proper behavior for young women.
When I emerged for tea with Captain Jaggery, I begged permission to read him some of what I had written. So unstinting was he in his praise, that I gained a double pleasure. For in his commendation I was certain I had won my father’s approval too—so much were their characters alike.
The captain spent his days in punctilious attention to the ship, pacing off the quarterdeck from wheel to rail, from rail to wheel, ever alert to some disorder to correct. If his eyes were not upon the sails, they were upon the ropes and spars. If not upon those, they rested on the decking.
It was just as he had warned me: the crew was prone to laxness. But—since he had the responsibility of the ship, not they—he was forced, with constant surveillance and commands, to bring discipline to their work.
Things I never would have thought important he could find at grievous fault. From tarnish upon a rail to limp sails and ragged spars, whether it was rigging to be over hauled or new tar to be applied, blocks, tackle, shrouds, each and all were forever in want of repair. Decks had to be holystoned, caulked, and scrubbed anew, the bow scraped and scraped again, the figurehead repainted. In short, under his keen eye everything was kept in perfect order. For this all hands would be called sometimes more than twice a watch. I heard the calls even at night.
Indeed, so mindful was the captain’s sense of responsibility toward the ship («my father’s firm,” as he was wont to remind me) that no man on watch was ever allowed to do nothing, but was kept at work.
“You are not paid to be idle,” the captain often declared, and he, setting an example, was never slack in his duty. Even at our teas, he was vigilant—again, so like my father—and patiently examined me as to what I had seen, heard, or even thought—always ready with quick and wise correction.
He was not so patient with the first and second mates, to whom he gave all his orders, depending upon whose watch it was. These men, Mr. Hollybrass and Mr. Keetch, were as different from the captain as from each other.
Mr. Keetch when summoned would scuttle quickly to his side, nervous, agitated, that look of fear forever about him, and absorb the captain’s barked orders with a cringing servility.