“Help!” I screamed. “Help me!” One hand lost its grip.
Four feet from the mast I tried to swing myself back in the vain hope of grasping the mast with my legs. The attempt only weakened my hold more. I was certain I was going to drop.
“Help!” I screamed into the wind.
Suddenly, a figure appeared on the spar. “Charlotte!” I heard. “Take my hand!” And indeed, a hand was thrust toward my face. I reached for it frantically, grabbed it, clung to it, as it clung to me, its fingers encircling my wrist in an iron grip. For a moment I was hanging by that one hand. Then I was yanked upward onto the spar so I could get my legs around it and locked. Gasping for breath, I glanced up at the figure who was now scrambling away. It was Zachariah.
For one brief moment I was certain I had died and he was an angel. But I hardly had time for thought. For just above me, I heard a great wrenching explosion. I looked up to see that the foreyard had ripped away. As the sail spun off in the wind I caught a glimpse of its gray mass twisting and turning into oblivion like a tormented soul cast down to Hell.
I spun back around. The man I thought to be Zachariah had vanished. But even as I gazed in wonder, the Seahawk, free from the sail’s pull and weight, heeled violently. To my horror I saw the ocean rush up toward me. We were capsizing. But then suddenly, the ship shivered and righted herself.
Gasping for breath I clawed my way forward until I reached the mast, which I hugged as though it were life itself. Without the knife there was nothing more I could do aloft. In any case the sail I had been sent to free was gone. I began to descend, slipping more than I climbed.
I jumped the last few feet onto the deck. I don’t know if the storm had somewhat abated or I’d just grown used to it. There were still strong winds and the rain beat upon us as before. But the fury of the hurricane somehow softened. I looked about. Spars, some entangled with sails, lay in heaps. Railings were splintered. Dangling ropes flapped about. Then I saw some of the men on the quarterdeck working frantically with axes. I hurried to join them.
Only then did I realize the mainmast was gone. All that remained was a jagged stump. I thought of the shriek I’d heard.
Looking toward the stern, I saw Fisk slumped over the wheel. His great arms were spread wide, his hands clutching the wheel spokes. He could not have stayed upright had he not been lashed into place.
I joined the men.
Beneath the continual if now somewhat slackened downpour we all pulled at the great mound of downed spars and sails. Those that were dragging overboard, we cut loose and let go. Those we could move we flung into the waist.
And then, quite suddenly—as if Heaven itself had triumphed over darkness—the rain ceased. The sea subsided into a roiling calm. Even the sun began to shine. And when I looked up I saw—to my astonishment—a blue sky.
“It’s over!” I said breathlessly.
Mr. Johnson shook his head. “Nothing like!” he warned. “It’s the eye of the storm. There’ll only be a pause. And it’ll be back in twenty minutes going the other way. But, God willing, if we can clear the deck we may be able to ride it out!”
I looked up at our remaining mast. Only the topgallant was left. The other sails had been cut loose.
Working frantically we reached the bottom of the pile. It was Foley who pulled away the last torn sail. There, beneath it, lay Mr. Hollybrass, face down. A knife was stuck in his back, plunged so deeply only the scrimshaw handle could be seen. I recognized the design of a star. This was the dirk Zachariah had given me.
The sight of the dead Mr. Hollybrass—for it was certain that such was the case—left us all dumbfounded. But after all we’d been through in the storm it’s hardly to be wondered that we made no response. We were too drained. Too numb.
“What is it?” came a voice. We turned to see Captain Jaggery. He was looking much like the rest of us, wild and disheveled.
We stepped aside. No one said a word. He came forward. For a moment he too did nothing but stare at the body. Then he knelt and touched the man’s face, the back of his neck.
For a moment he hesitated, then pulled Mr. Hollybrass’s arm from where it lay twisted under his body. The dead man clutched something in his hand. The captain managed to pry the fingers open, and plucked away what Mr. Hollybrass had been holding. He held it up.
It was my handkerchief.
The captain now used that handkerchief to grasp the handle of the knife and pull it from the dead man’s back. He stood up. He was looking directly at me.
At last he turned toward the sky. It was darkening again. And the sea had begun to heave in growing swells. “We shall have fifteen more minutes before the storm returns,” he announced. “I want this body removed and placed in the steerage. In the available time the rest of you clear the deck. Mr. Johnson’s watch shall man the pumps first. Two from Mr. Hollybrass’s watch will hold the wheel and the rest can stay in the forecastle. I will call the rotation. Now, quickly!”
The captain’s orders were carried out in silence. Dillingham and Grimes took Mr. Hollybrass’s body below. The rest of us roamed the decks alone or in pairs, flinging broken bits of mast, sail, and spar into the sea, or trying to tie down what was possible to save by lashing it on deck.
I followed along, doing what I could, my mind a jumble. Not a word was spoken regarding Mr. Hollybrass or his death. As extraordinary as the event was, there was no time, no mind to consider it.
As predicted, the storm struck within the quarter hour and with as much fury as before. But the Seahawk, with one mast and but a single sail hung, was more fit to ride it out.
I rushed to the top cargo, where the pumps were. They were simple suction pumps, each capable of being worked by as few as two. But four we were, Grimes, Keetch, Mr. Johnson, and myself, who heaved the handles in the cold, wet, and lurching darkness, as though our lives depended upon it—which they did.
Again the Seahawk became a mere toy to the elements. Wind shrieked and howled; more than once water poured over us from above, or the ship heeled to the gunwales, bringing hearts to mouths. For the merest second we would balance on the brink of capsizing while we pumped with greater will than ever. It was as if that rhythmic action was the true beating of our own hearts—as if, were we to stop for more than a moment, the heart of the ship might cease all beating too.
To work meant to live. And work we did for upwards of three hours. Then we were released.
I was sent to the forecastle to rest along with Morgan, Barlow, and Fisk. Morgan searched for his tobacco pouch, but most personal belongings were flung about and broken, and those still whole were soaking wet. He swore in frustration.
“Be glad you’re breathing air, lad,” Fisk said wearily.
Chilled to the bone, exhausted, I tumbled into a hammock and tried to sleep. But I’d hardly closed my eyes before I was called out again. Now I was to stand to the wheel. The captain was there—to his credit he remained at the helm throughout the storm—calling upon us to attempt this adjustment, or that, anything to keep our stern toward the wind.
Barlow, my partner, did most of the work. Great strength was wanted just to hold the wheel steady. What ever strength I had was fast ebbing.
I was frozen, miserable. It did not matter. From duty at the wheel I returned to the pumps. From the pumps to the forecastle. Thence again to the wheel. Round and again, perhaps three times in all. I lost count.
At last—some seventeen hours after we’d first been called out—the storm abated. I was allowed to return to my hammock where, spent and shivering, I closed my eyes. On the edge of sleep I suddenly recalled the visitation of Zachariah and the demise of Mr. Hollybrass. This thought of the dead served to remind me that I was still alive. And that consolation eased my body and calmed my mind. Within seconds I slept the sleep of the dead who wait—with perfect equanimity—upon the final judgment.