He swung about. “Mr. Hollybrass, you have given but two lashes. If you can do no better you’d best stand aside for someone who has the gumption.”
Sighing, but summoning up his strength, Hollybrass struck once more. Zachariah was no longer standing on his toes. He was simply hanging.
Again the whip lashed. That time the old man moaned.
I could bear it no longer. In a surge of tears and agonized guilt, I hurled myself at Hollybrass, who, hardly expecting an attack, twisted, then tumbled to the deck. I fell with him.
In the scramble I managed to snatch hold of the whip handle and leap to my feet. I was trying to throw it overboard.
But Captain Jaggery was too quick. With a snarl he grabbed hold of me. Frantic, I slipped out of his grasp and stood facing him, panting, weeping, gripping the whip handle hard. “You mustn’t,” I kept saying, “You mustn’t!”
“Give me that!” the captain cried, advancing upon me again, his face blazing. “Give it!”
“You mustn’t,” I kept repeating, “You mustn’t!”
He took another step toward me. I’d wedged myself against the outward rail. In a gesture of defense I pulled up my arm, and so doing flicked the whip through the air, inflicting a cut across the captain’s face.
For an instant a red welt marked him from his left cheek to his right ear. Blood began to ooze.
I stood utterly astonished by what I’d done.
The captain remained motionless too, his face transfigured by surprise and pain. Slowly he lifted a hand to his cheek, touched it delicately, then examined his fingertips. When he saw they were bloody he swore a savage oath, jumped forward and tore the whip from my hand, whirled about and began beating Zachariah with such fury as I had never seen. Finally, spent, he flung the whip down and marched from the deck.
Mr. Hollybrass, his face ashen, swallowed hard and murmured, “All hands resume your stations.” Groaning, he bent to gather up the guns and other weapons and followed after the captain.
For a moment no one did or said anything. Perhaps they had not heard the first mate. It was Fisk who broke the spell. “Cut him down!” I heard him cry.
Ewing hurried forward and climbed into the shrouds. In moments Zachariah’s scarred and bloodied body dropped to the deck.
Keetch knelt over the fallen man while the others, standing in a close circle, looked down in terrible silence. I could see nothing of what was happening. Instead I waited alone, trembling, trying to absorb all that I had seen and done.
But as I watched from outside their circle I felt myself grow sicker and sicker until, clutching my stomach, I turned and vomited into the sea.
Shaken, weak with tears, I looked back to the sailors. They had picked Zachariah up and were carrying him toward the forecastle.
I had been left alone.
Chapter Twelve
Sobbing in absolute misery, I threw myself onto my bed. I wept for Zachariah, for Cranick, even for Captain Jaggery. But most of all I wept for myself. There was no way to avoid the truth that all the horror I’d witnessed had been brought about by me.
As the ghastly scenes repeated themselves in my mind, I realized too that there was no way of denying what the captain had done. Captain Jaggery, my friend, my guardian—my father’s employee—had been unspeakably cruel. Not only had he killed Cranick—who was, I knew, threatening him—he had clearly meant to kill Zachariah for no reason other than that he was helpless! He singled him out because he was the oldest and weakest. Or was it because he was black? Or was it, I asked myself suddenly, because he was my friend?
Just the thought made me shiver convulsively. Tears of regret and guilt redoubled.
My weeping lasted for the better part of an hour. Aside from reliving the fearsome events, I was trying desperately to decide what to do. As I grasped the situation, the crew would have nothing but loathing for me who had so betrayed them. And they were right. After their kindliness and acceptance I had betrayed them.
And Captain Jaggery? Without intending to hadn’t I done him a great wrong when I’d cut his face—albeit unintentionally—with the whip? Could he, would he, forgive me?
Beyond all else I had been educated to the belief that when I was wrong—and how often had my patient father found me at fault—it was my responsibility—mine alone—to admit my fault and make amends.
Gradually then, I came to believe that no matter how distasteful, I must beg the captain’s forgiveness. And the sooner I did so, the better.
With this in mind I rose up, brushed my hair, washed my face, smoothed my dress, rubbed my shoes. Then, as ready as I could ever hope to be under the circumstances, I went to his cabin door and knocked timidly.
There was no answer. Again I knocked, perhaps a little more boldly.
This time I heard, “Who is it?”
“Charlotte Doyle, sir.”
My words were met by an ominous silence. But after a while he said, “What do you want?”
“Please, sir. I beg you let me speak with you.”
When silence was again the response, I nearly accepted defeat and went away. But at last I heard steps within. Then came the word “Enter.”
I opened the door and looked in. Captain Jaggery was standing with his back to me. I remained at the threshold waiting for him to invite me to proceed further. He neither moved nor spoke.
“Sir?” I tried.
“What?”
“I . . . I did not mean . . .”
“You did not mean what?”
“I did not mean to . . . interfere,” I managed to say, now meekly advancing toward him. “I was so frightened . . . I didn’t know . . . I had no intention ...” When the captain maintained his silence I faltered. But gathering up my strength again, I stammered, “And when I had the whip . . .”
Suddenly I realized he was about to turn. My words died on my lips.
He did turn. And I saw him. The welt I’d made across his face was a red open wound. But it was his eyes that made me shudder. They expressed nothing so much as implacable hatred. And it was all directed at me.
“Sir ...” I tried, “I did not mean . . .”
“Do you know what you have done?” he said, his voice a hiss.
“Sir ...”
“Do you know?” he now roared.
My tears began to flow anew. “I didn’t mean to, sir,” I pleaded. “I didn’t. Believe me.”
“You insulted me before my crew as no man should ever be insulted.”
“But . . .”
“Insulted by a sniffling, self-centered, ugly, contemptible girl,” he spat out, “who deserves a horsewhipping!”
I sank to my knees, hands in prayerlike supplication.
“Let them take care of you,” he snarled. “In any way they want. I withdraw my protection. Do you under stand? I want nothing to do with you. Nothing!”
“Sir . . .”
“And don’t you dare presume to come to my cabin again,” he shouted. “Ever!”
I began to weep uncontrollably.
“Get out!” he raged. “Get out!” He made a move toward me.
In great fright I jumped up—tearing the hem of my dress—and fled back to my cabin. But if the truth be known—and I swore when I began to set down this tale that I would tell only the truth—even at that moment all my thoughts were of finding some way to appease the captain and regain his favor. If I could have found a way to gain his forgiveness—no matter what it took—I would have seized the opportunity.