I made myself glance up. Oh, so far to go! How I forced myself to move I am not sure. But the thought of backing down now was just as frightening. Knowing only that I could not stay still, I crept upward, ratline by ratline, taking what seemed to be forever with each rise until I finally reached the level just below the topgallant spar.
A seasoned sailor would have needed two minutes to reach this point. I had needed thirty!
Though I felt the constant roll of the ship, I had to rest there. What seemed like little movement on deck became, up high, wild swings and turns through treacherous air.
I gagged, forced my stomach down, drew breath, and looked out. Though I didn’t think it possible, the ocean appeared to have grown greater yet. And when I looked down, the upturned faces of the crew appeared like so many tiny bugs.
There were twenty-five or so more feet to climb. Once again I grasped the rigging and hauled myself up.
This final climb was torture. With every upward pull the swaying of the ship seemed to increase. Even when not moving myself, I was flying through the air in wild, wide gyrations. The horizon kept shifting, tilting, dropping. I was increasingly dizzy, nauseous, terrified, certain that with every next moment I would slip and fall to death. I paused again and again, my eyes on the rigging inches from my face, gasping and praying as I had never prayed before. My one hope was that, nearer to heaven now, I could make my desperation heard!
Inch by inch I continued up. Half an inch! Quarter inches! But then at last with trembling fingers, I touched the spar of the royal yard. I had reached the top.
Once there I endeavored to rest again. But there the metronome motion of the mast was at its most extreme, the Seahawk turning, tossing, swaying as if trying to shake me off—like a dog throwing droplets of water from its back. And when I looked beyond I saw a sea that was infinity itself, ready, eager to swallow me whole.
I had to get back down.
As hard as it was to climb up, it was, to my horror, harder returning. On the ascent I could see where I was going. Edging down I had to grope blindly with my feet. Sometimes I tried to look. But when I did the sight of the void below was so sickening, I was forced to close my eyes.
Each groping step downward was a nightmare. Most times my foot found only air. Then, as if to mock my terror, a small breeze at last sprang up. Sails began to fill and snap, puffing in and out, at times smothering me.
The tossing of the ship grew—if that were possible—more extreme.
Down I crept, past the topgallant where I paused briefly on the trestletree, then down along the longest stretch, toward the mainyard. It was there I fell.
I was searching with my left foot for the next ratline. When I found a hold and started to put my weight upon it, my foot, slipping on the slick tar surface, shot forward. The suddenness of it made me lose my grip. I tumbled backward, but in such a way that my legs became entangled in the lines. There I hung, head downward.
I screamed, tried to grab something. But I couldn’t. I clutched madly at nothing, till my hand brushed against a dangling rope. I grabbed for it, missed, and grabbed again. Using all my strength, I levered myself up and, wrapping my arms into the lines, made a veritable knot of myself, mast, and rigging. Oh, how I wept! my entire body shaking and trembling as though it would break apart.
When my breathing became somewhat normal, I managed to untangle first one arm, then my legs. I was free.
I continued down. By the time I reached the mainyard I was numb and whimpering again, tears coursing from my eyes.
I moved to the shrouds I’d climbed, and edged myself past the lowest of the sails.
As I emerged from under it, the crew gave out a great “Huzzah!”
Oh, how my heart swelled with exaltation!
Finally, when I’d reached close to the very end, Barlow stepped forward, beaming, his arms uplifted. “Jump!” he called. “Jump!”
But now, determined to do it all myself, I shook my head. Indeed, in the end I dropped down on my own two India-rubber legs—and tumbled to the deck.
No sooner did I land than the crew gave me another “Huzzah!” With joyous heart I staggered to my feet. Only then did I see Captain Jaggery push through the knot of men and come to stand before me.
Chapter Fourteen
There I stood. Behind me the semicircle of the crew seemed to recoil from the man and from Mr. Hollybrass, who appeared not far behind.
“Miss Doyle,” the captain said with barely suppressed fury. “What is the meaning of this?”
I stood mute. How could I explain to him? Besides, there were no words left within me. I had gone through too many transformations of mood and spirit within the last twenty-four hours.
When I remained silent he demanded, “Why are you dressed in this scandalous fashion? Answer me!” The angrier he became, the darker grew the color of the welt on his face. “Who gave you permission to climb into the rigging?”
I backed up a step and said, “I . . . I have joined the crew.”
Unable to comprehend my words Captain Jaggery remained staring fixedly at me. Then gradually he did understand. His face flushed red. His fists clenched.
“Miss Doyle,” he said between gritted teeth, “you will go to your cabin, remove these obscene garments and put on your proper dress.You are causing a disruption. I will not allow it.”
But when I continued to stand there—unmoving, making no response—he suddenly shouted, “Did you not hear me? Get to your cabin!”
“I won’t,” I blurted out. “I’m no longer a passenger.
I’m with them.” So saying, I stepped back until I sensed the men around me.
The captain glared at the crew. “And you,” he sneered. “I suppose you’d have her?”
The response of the men was silence.
The captain seemed unsure what to do.
“Mr. Hollybrass!” he barked finally.
“Waiting your orders, sir.”
The captain flushed again. He shifted his attention back to me. “Your father, Miss Doyle,” he declared, “. . . he would not allow this.”
“I think I know my father—an officer in the company who owns this ship, and your employer—better than you,” I said. “He would approve of my reasons.”
The captain’s uncertainty grew. At last he replied, “Very well, Miss Doyle, if you do not assume your proper attire this instant, if you insist upon playing these games, you shall not be given the opportunity to change your mind. If crew you are, crew you shall remain. I promise, I shall drive you as I choose.”
“I don’t care what you do!” I threw back at him.
The captain turned to the first mate. “Mr. Hollybrass, remove Miss Doyle’s belongings from her cabin. Let her take her place in the forecastle with the crew. Put her down as Mister Doyle and list Miss Doyle in the log as lost. From this point on I expect to see that he works with the rest.” With that, he disappeared into the steerage.
No sooner had he done so than the crew—though not Mr. Hollybrass—let out another raucous cheer!
In just such a fashion did I become a full-fledged crew member of the Seahawk. Whatever grievous errors I had made before—in thwarting the mutiny led by Cranick and in causing the resulting cruelty toward Zachariah—the sailors appeared to accept my change of heart and position without reservation. They saw my desire to become a crew member not only as atonement, but as a stinging rebuff to Captain Jaggery. Once I had showed myself willing to do what they did—by climbing the rigging—once they saw me stand up to Jaggery, an intense apprenticeship commenced. And for it the crewmen became my teachers. They helped me, worked with me, guided me past the mortal dangers that lurked in every task. In this they were far more patient with all my repeated errors than those teachers at the Barrington School for Better Girls when there was nothing to learn but penmanship, spelling, and the ancient authors of morality.