This time I did not cry. I was too numb, too much in a state of shock. Instead, I simply stood immobile—rather like the moment when I’d first cast eyes upon the Seahawk—trying confusedly to think out what I could do.
I tried, desperately, to imagine what my father, even what my mother or Miss Weed, might want me to do, but I could find no answer.
In search of a solution I finally stepped in dread out of the cabin and made my way to the deck. I told myself that what I wanted, needed, was fresh air. In fact, I was motivated by a need to know how the crew would receive me.
The ship was still adrift. No wind had caught our sails. The decks once more appeared deserted. My first thought was that the crew had fled! All I heard was the soft flutter of canvas, the clinking of chain, the heaving of boat timbers. It was as if the engines of the world itself had ground to a halt.
But when I looked to the quarterdeck I did see the crew. Heads bowed, they were standing together quietly. Then I heard the deep voice of Fisk, though exactly what he was saying I could not at first make out.
Hollybrass, I saw, was standing somewhat apart from the men, his dark eyes watching intently. There was a pistol in his hand but in no way was he interfering with them.
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 fore castle. 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 entry way 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.”