You may believe me too when I say that I shirked no work. Even if I’d wanted to, it was clear from the start that shirking would not be allowed. I pounded oakum into the deck. I scraped the hull. I stood watch as dawn blessed the sea and as the moon cut the midnight sky. I tossed the line to measure the depths of the sea. I took my turn at the wheel. I swabbed the deck and tarred the rigging, spliced ropes and tied knots. My mess was shared with the crew. And I went aloft.
Indeed, that first journey to the top of the mainmast was but the prelude to many daily climbs. Of course, after that first there were always others who went along with me. High above the sea, my crewmates taught me to work with one hand—the other must hold on—to dangle over spars, to reef sails, to edge along the walk ropes. So I came to work every sail, at every hour of the day.
As for the captain, he was as good as his word. No, better than his word. He continued to drive his crew without mercy, and since I was now a part of it, he drove them, and me in particular, harder than before. But try as he might he could find no cause for complaint. I would not let him.
My knowledge of physical labor had been all but nil, of course; hardly a wonder then that from the moment I joined the crew I was in pain. I ached as if my body had been racked. My skin turned pink, then red, then brown. The flesh upon my hands broke first into oozing, running sores, then metamorphosed into a new rough hide—all as promised. And when my watch was done I flung myself into my hammock and slept the sleep of righteousness—though never more than four hours and more often less.
A word must be said about where and how I slept. It will be remembered that the captain denied me my cabin, insisting that I take my place in the forecastle with the men. No doubt he thought to humiliate me and force me to return to my former place.
The men caucused that first day, and in a meeting that concluded with a sacred oath, bade me take my place along with them, swearing to give me the utmost privacy they could provide. They would be my brothers. I was no longer to be called Miss Doyle, but Charlotte.
I was given a hammock placed in a corner. Around this a piece of torn sail was tacked up as a kind of curtain. The space was private for me, and kept that way.
True, I heard—and learned—their rough language. I confess too that in my newfound freedom I brandished a few bold terms of my own—to the amusement of the men at first. But after a while, it became rather second nature to me, and to them. I say this not to brag, but to suggest the complete absorption I felt in my new life. I came to feel a sense of exhilaration in it such as I had never felt before.
Thus it was that after a fortnight, I found myself atop the foremast, hugging the topgallant spar, my bare brown feet nimbly balancing on the foot ropes. It was seven bells of the second dog watch, just before dusk. The wind was out of the northwest. Our sails were taut. Our studding sails were set.
Below, the ship’s bow—as though pulled by her winged figurehead—plunged repeatedly, stirring froth and foam. This rocking movement seemed effortless to me now, as if, like the ship’s namesake, we were flying. Not far off our starboard bow, dolphins chased the waves, flyers themselves.
My hair, uncombed for days, blew free in the salty air. My face, dark with weather, was creased with smile. I was squinting westward into the swollen face of a blood-red sun, which cast a shimmering golden road upon the sea; from where I perched it seemed we were sailing on that road in a dream. And there I was, joyous, new-made, liberated from a prison I’d thought was my proper place!
The only shadow on my happiness was Captain Jaggery. He came on deck infrequently, and when he did he was enveloped in the murkiest gloom.
Rarely did he speak to anyone but the mates—Mr. Hollybrass and Mister Johnson now—and only then to give orders or rebukes.
Naturally, the captain was the principal subject of endless scuttlebutt in the forecastle during off-watch times.
Ewing claimed there was tension between the captain and the first mate, because Mr. Hollybrass didn’t approve of Jaggery’s ways.
“Don’t you believe it,” said Keetch, who, if anything, had grown more tense since his demotion. “Hollybrass is glove to Jaggery’s hand.”
Fisk insisted Jaggery’s keeping below so much was only a case of his wanting to hide the welt on his face, of hiding himself in shame.
It was Grimes who swore he was pressing us to make a crossing in good time and so prove he’d done no wrong.
But it was Foley who said that I was the cause of the captain’s every move.
“What do you mean?” I demanded.
“I’ve seen him,” Foley insisted. “Studied him. He doesn’t come out unless it’s your watch. One eye keeps the ship in trim. But the other—”
“What?” I said, sensing already that he was right.
“He’s always watching you,” Foley said, looking around at the others for confirmation. “And there’s nothing but hatred in his eye.”
The others nodded in agreement.
“But why?” I asked.
“He’s waiting, wanting you to make a mistake,” Morgan put in, taking a deep pull on his pipe, then filling the forecastle with its acrid smoke.
“What kind of mistake?” I asked.
“Something he can use against you. Something to set him right. Look here, Charlotte, you boxed him in.”
“I did?”
“It was that first moment you joined us. You mentioned your father, didn’t you? Said he’d approve of what you’ve done.”
“He would. He believes in justice.”
“Be that as it may, Jaggery didn’t know what to do. He gave way. Not a thing he likes, you know. So now I say he’s waiting for a mistake on your part to set himself back up.”
“I don’t intend to make a mistake,” I stated proudly.
Fisk spat upon the floor. “Neither does he.”
It came to pass as Morgan promised.
To a person on land the sight of a ship’s sails, bleached by sun, stretched by wind, is the very image of airy lightness. In fact, a sail is made of very heavy canvas. When one gets tangled on a spar it must be pulled loose quickly or it can tear or burst, and in so doing, pull down rigging, spars, even a mast. A sail out of control can flick like a wild whip and send a full-grown sailor into a senseless spin. It often happens.
Now the flying jib is set at the furthest point of the bowsprit—at the very tip of it. When you consider that the bow of a speeding ship on a high sea forever rises and falls, you will perceive that a broken jib can dip into the sea itself. Such is the water’s force and the driving of the ship, that the bowsprit itself can be caused to snap. Thus the sailor who seeks to repair a tangled jib must contend not only with a heavy, flailing sail, but the powerful, rushing sea only a few feet—sometimes closer—below him.
One afternoon—two days after our forecastle talk and during my watch—the flying jib became entangled in just the way I have described. As soon as he saw it, Captain Jaggery cried, “Mister Doyle! Fix the bowsprit!” In his haste to call on me, he spoke directly, not through one of his mates.