Another pause. “What do you want?” came a demand.
“It’s for Mr. Ewing,” I returned. “He’s sent me for a needle.”
There was some muttering, swearing, then, “All right. A moment.”
I heard rustling, the sound of people moving. Then the door was pushed open. Fisk looked out. He was a very large man, lantern-jawed, his fists clenched more often than not as though perpetually prepared to brawl. “What do you say?” he demanded.
“Mr. Ewing wants a needle from his chest,” I said meekly.
He glowered. “Come along then,” he said, waving me in.
I stepped forward and looked about. The only light came from the open door, just enough for me to see that the low ceiling was festooned with dirty garments. I was accosted by a heavy stench of sweat and filth. Scraps of cheap pictures—some of a scandalous nature—were nailed here and there to the walls in aimless fashion. Cups, shoes, belaying pins, all lay jumbled in heaps. In the center of the floor was a trunk on which sat a crude checkerboard, itself partly covered with a sheet of paper. Along the walls hammocks were slung, but so low I could not see the faces of those in them. What I did see were the arms and legs of three men. They seemed to be asleep, though I knew that could not be true. I had heard more than one voice.
“Mr. Ewing’s chest is there,” Fisk said, gesturing to a corner with a thumb. He lumbered back to his hammock, sat in it and, though he said no more, watched me suspiciously.
The small wooden chest was tucked under one of the empty hammocks.
Apprehensively, I knelt, briefly turning to Fisk to make sure that this chest was indeed Ewing’s.
He grunted an affirmation.
Then I turned back, drew the small trunk forward, and flipped open the top. The first thing that met my eyes was a pistol.
The sight of it was so startling that all I could do was stare. One thought filled my mind: Captain Jaggery had told me—bragged to me—that there were no firearms anywhere on board but in his cabinet.
My eyes shifted. I saw a piece of cork into which some needles were stuck. I pulled one out, and hastily shut the chest in hopes that no one else had seen what I had. Then I came to my feet, and turned to leave.
Fisk was looking hard at me. I forced myself to return his gaze, hoping I was not revealing anything of my feelings. Then I started out, but in my haste stumbled into the trunk in the center of the area. The sheet of paper fluttered to the floor. Apologetic, I stooped to gather it and in a glance saw that on the paper two circles had been drawn, one inside the other. And there appeared to be names and marks written between the lines.
The instant I saw it I knew what it was. A round robin.
Clumsily, I pushed the paper away, murmured a “Thank you,” then fled.
I was trembling when I left the forecastle. To make matters worse, the first person I saw was the second mate, Mr. Keetch, who was passing on his way to the galley. I stopped short, with what was, no doubt, a guilty cast to my face. Fortunately, he paid no attention to me, giving me hardly a look beyond his normal, nervous frown. Then he continued on. But though he was gone I simply stood there not knowing what to think or do. Unconsciously I clasped my hand, jabbing my palm with the needle.
Ever faithful to my sense of duty—even in that moment of crisis—I hurried to Ewing and gave the needle to him.
“Here, miss,” he said, scrutinizing my face as he took it, “have you taken ill?”
“No, thank you,” I whispered, attempting to avoid his look. “I am fine.”
I fled hastily back to my cabin and secured the door behind me. Once alone I climbed atop my bed and flung myself down, then gave myself over entirely to the question of what I should do.
You will understand that there was no doubt in my mind regarding what I had seen. There had been a pistol. There had been a round robin. With the warnings given to me by Captain Jaggery—and ever-mindful of the possibilities revealed to me by Zachariah—I had little doubt about the meaning of my discoveries. The crew was preparing a rebellion.
Regaining some degree of calmness I thought over who it was that had been in the forecastle. To begin with there was Fisk. He was part of Mr. Keetch’s watch, so it was reasonable to assume that the other members of his watch were with him.
There were, I knew, four men in that watch: Ewing, Morgan, Foley, and of course Fisk himself.
But as I reviewed these names my feelings of puzzlement grew. What I had observed did not make sense. Then I grasped it. I had seen Fisk. It was he who had opened the forecastle door. And Ewing was on the forecastle deck. But when I stepped inside there had been three hammocks occupied with men. In short, I had seen a total of five men off watch. Assuming the other hammocks indeed held members of the watch, who then was the fifth man? Could it have been Mr. Keetch himself? No. I had seen him just outside the forecastle when I emerged. Nor could it have been someone who was on duty. The captain would never have tolerated that. Who then was that fifth man?
I began to wonder if I’d not been mistaken about the number, reminding myself that a hammock full of clothing would have looked much the same as one occupied by a man.
But the more I recollected what I’d seen—the weight of the hammocks, the dangling arms and legs—the more convinced I grew that I’d indeed seen four men.
Suddenly—like the crack of a wind-whipped sail—I recalled my dim vision when waiting to board the Seahawk the night of my arrivaclass="underline" of a man hauling himself up ropes to the ship. Of course! A stowaway!
But where could such a man have hidden himself?
No sooner did I ask myself that than I remembered the face which had so frightened me in the top cargo when I’d gone for my clothing. It had been a face that I’d not recognized. Indeed, it was just that lack of recognition that convinced me I’d imagined it. In fact—I now realized—I must have seen the stowaway! No wonder I did not recognize him! He had been hiding in the hold, which explained Barlow’s dire words about the place, as well as the grinning carving. The man sought to scare me from the place!
But having arrived at that conclusion I asked myself this: what was I to do with my discovery? To ask the question was to have the answer: Captain Jaggery. It was to him I owed my allegiance—by custom—by habit—by law. To him I must speak. And the truth was, in addition to everything else, I was now consumed by guilt—and terror—that I had not told him before of the incident in the top cargo. So it was that by the time I had come full course in my thinking, I knew I mustn’t wait a moment longer. I needed to get to Captain Jaggery.
Recollecting the time—three bells of the second dog watch—I knew that the captain would most likely be found by the helm.
Nervously, I emerged from my cabin and went onto the deck in search of him. The first man I saw was Morgan, leaning against the starboard rail. He was a gangly, long-limbed, muscular fellow, with a fierce mustache and long hair. As he was one of Mr. Keetch’s watch—not currently on duty—he should have been among those in a forecastle hammock when I’d been there. I say he should have been because I had not seen his face. His presence was only a surmise.
But there he was, on deck. Brought to a dead stop I gazed dumbly at him; he in return gazed right at me. Surely, I thought, he was there to observe me.