Before I could respond, Grimes leaped forward, calling, “I’ll do it, sir!” Grimes was one of the bearded ones, quick to flare, quick to forget.
“The call was for Mr. Doyle,” returned the Captain. “Does he refuse?”
“No, sir,” I said and hurried to the knighthead from which the bowsprit thrust forward.
Grimes hurried along with me, offering hasty instructions in my ear, as well as urging a splicing knife upon me.
I took it and put it in a pocket.
“Charlotte, do you see that line out there?” he asked, pointing to the twisted line at the far end of the bowsprit that had snarled the jib.
I nodded.
“Don’t monkey with the sail itself. All you need do is cut the rope. The sail will free itself and we’ve got others. Mind, you’ll need to cut sharp, then swing down under the bowsprit in one quick jump, or the sail will toss you in. Understand?”
Again I nodded.
“Time yourself proper. If the ship plunges, the sea will up and grab you.”
So cocky had I become that I leaped to the head rail with little thought or worry, then set my foot upon the bowsprit itself. I saw that I needed to walk out along this bowsprit some twenty feet—not too difficult a task, I thought, because the back rope was something I could cling to.
As I had by now learned to do, I started off by keeping my eyes on the bowsprit and my bare feet, inching step by step along it. The hiss of the water rushing below was pronounced, the bowsprit itself wet and slippery with foam. No matter. What took me by surprise was the bowsprit’s wild bobbing.
Halfway along I glanced back. For the first time since I’d boarded the ship, I saw the figurehead clearly, the pale white seahawk with wings thrust back against the bow, its head extended forward, beak open wide in a scream. As the bow dipped, this open beak dropped and dropped again into the sea, coming up each time with foam streaming like a rabid dog. So startled was I by the frightful vision that for a moment I froze until a sudden plunge of the ship almost tumbled me seaward.
I reached the crucial point soon enough, but only by curling my toes tight upon the bowsprit, and holding fast onto the back rope line with one hand was I able to free the other to take Grimes’s splicing knife from my pocket.
I leaned forward and began to cut. The tightness of the tangled line helped. The knife cut freely. Too much so. The last remaining strands snapped with a crack, the sail boomed out, flicking away at my cutting hand—and the knife went flying into the sea. Even as I lunged for it the bowsprit plunged. I slipped and started to fall. By merest chance I made a successful grab at the bowsprit itself, which left me hanging, feet dangling, only a few feet above the rushing sea.
As the Seahawk plunged and plunged again, I was dunked to my waist, to my chest. I tried to swing myself up to hook my feet over, but I could not. The sea kept snatching at me, trying to pull me down while I dangled there kicking wildly, uselessly. Twice my head went under. Blinded, I swallowed water, choked. Then I saw that only by timing my leg swings to the upward thrust of the ship could I save myself.
The ship heaved skyward. With all my might I swung my legs up and wrapped them about the bowsprit, but again the Seahawk plunged. Into the tearing sea I went, clutching the spar. Then up. This time I used the momentum to swing over, so I was now atop the bowsprit, straddling it, then lying on it.
Someone must have called to the man at the helm. The ship shifted course. Found easier water. Slowed. Ceased to plunge so.
Gasping for breath, spitting seawater, I was able to pull myself along the bowsprit and finally, by stepping on the wooden bird’s furious head, climbed over the rail.
Grimes was there to help me onto the deck and give me an enthusiastic hug of approval.
The captain, of course, watched me stony-faced.
“Mister Doyle,” he barked. “Come here!”
Though greatly shaken, I had no time to be frightened. I had done the task and knew I’d done it. I hurried to the quarterdeck.
“When I ask you to do a job,” the captain said, “it’s you I ask, and not another. You’ve caused us to change course, to lose time!” And before I could respond, he struck me across the face with the back of his hand, then turned and walked away.
My reaction was quick. “Coward!” I screamed at him. “Fraud!”
He spun about, and began to stride back toward me, his scarred face contorted in rage.
But I, in a rage myself, wouldn’t give way. “I can’t wait till Providence!” I shouted at him. “I’ll go right to the courts! You won’t be captain long! You’ll be seen by everyone as the cruel despot you are!” And I spat upon the deck by his boots.
My words made him turn as pale as a ghost—a ghost with murder in his eye. But then, abruptly, he gained control of himself and, as he’d done on previous occasions, whirled about and left the deck.
I turned away, feeling triumphant. Much of the crew had seen it all. But there were no more hurrahs.
The moment passed. Nothing more was said, save by Grimes, who insisted that I take lessons in the handling of a knife, carrying it, using it, even throwing it. On my first watch off he had me practice on the deck for three hours.
Two more days passed without incident. In that time, however, the sky turned a perpetual gray. The air thickened with moisture. Winds rose and fell in what I thought was a peculiar pattern. Toward the end of the second day when Barlow and I were scraping down the capstan, I saw a branch on the waves. A red bird was perched on the branch.
“Look!” I cried with delight, pointing to the bird. “Does that mean we’re close to land?”
Barlow hauled himself up to take a look. He shook his head. “That bird’s from the Caribbean. One thousand miles off. I’ve seen them there. Blood bird, they call them.”
“What’s it doing here?”
After a moment he said, “Storm driven.”
I looked at him in surprise. “What kind of storm would blow a bird that far?” I asked, wide-eyed.
“Hurricane.”
“What’s a hurricane?”
“The worst storm of all.”
“Can’t we sail around?”
Barlow again glanced at the helm, the sails and then at the sky above. He frowned. “I heard Mr. Hollybrass and Jaggery arguing about it. To my understanding,” he said, “I don’t think the captain wants to avoid it.”
“Why not?”
“It’s what Grimes has been saying. The captain’s trying to move fast. If he sets us right at the hurricane’s edge, it’ll blow us home like a pound of shot in a two-pound cannon.”
“What if he doesn’t get it right?”
“Two pounds of shot in a one-pound cannon.”
Chapter Fifteen
Two bells into the morning of our forty-fifth day, the storm struck.
“All hands! All hands!”
Even as the cry came, the Seahawk pitched and yawed violently. Whether I got out of my hammock on my own, or was tossed by the wrenching motion of the ship, to this day I do not know. But I woke to find myself sprawling on the floor, the curtain torn asunder, the forecastle in wildest confusion. Above my head the lantern swung grotesquely, the men’s possessions skittered about like billiard balls, trunks rolled helter-skelter. The watch was scrambling up.
As the ship plunged, and plunged again, the cry, “All hands! All hands!” came repeatedly, more urgent than I’d ever heard it.
“Hurricane!” I heard as well.
There was a frantic dash out of the forecastle and to the deck. I followed too, trying to pull on my jacket as I ran against the violent pitching of the ship.