Chapter Sixteen
It was fourteen hours before I woke. If I’d known that much time had passed I’d have realized something was amiss. No matter what the circumstances, it’s irregular for any member of a crew to be allowed to sleep so long.
For the moment, however, I remained in my hammock, blithely assuming it was simply not yet time for my normal watch. The canvas curtain had been restrung and was drawn closed . . . but that was the type of kindness Barlow or Ewing would have done. The familiar sounds of the running ship comforted me. And the truth is, despite the fact that my shirt and trousers were still damp, my body one great ache, I was enjoying my rest, thanking God and Zachariah I was alive.
Suddenly I sat up. But Zachariah died! I had seen him beaten to death, committed to the sea. Was it his ghost then who had saved me? I remembered thinking of an angel. Had I hallucinated the moment? Made a story of it for myself? It was like the kind of forecastle yarn I’d heard the sailors tell so often. I had not believed them. Not then. And yet—what was I to think other than that a miracle had transpired? That—I told myself—was absurd. But I had not imagined it. I remembered the man’s iron grip. Someone had helped me. Someone other than Zachariah. It had to be. But who?
I reached from my hammock and drew back the canvas curtain. I was alone. Puzzled, I got up quickly and ran from the forecastle onto the deck.
What I saw was as perfect a sky as any deepwater sailor could wish. The sun was warm, the breeze, out of the west, strong and even. And the deck was in good order, as if the storm had been but a dream. Even the foremast and bowsprit were fully rigged, their sails taut. Only the jagged stump of the mainmast—on the quarterdeck—stood testimony to the last twenty-four hours.
How much the men had accomplished while I slept! I felt forgotten.
There was Barlow. There was Morgan. Foley. It was my watch to be on duty. But why hadn’t I been called? Then I realized that both watches were on deck. When I saw Ewing and Keetch working near at hand I went to them.
“Ewing,” I called. “Keetch.”
Both men turned about. Instead of giving me his regular, casual greeting, “Morning to you, lass!” Ewing stopped his work and gaped at me with a frown that signaled . . . I knew not what. It gave me sudden pause. I glanced at Keetch, whose pinched face bore his familiar rabbit look of fear. But like Ewing, he said nothing.
“Why wasn’t I called?” I asked.
“Called?” Ewing echoed dumbly.
“My watch.”
They offered no explanation.
“Answer me!”
Ewing sighed. “Charlotte, we were told not to.”
“Told? Who told you?”
“It’s not for us to say, miss . . .” Keetch whispered.
“You’re not to call me miss!” I cried out in exasperation. “Are you going to tell me or not?”
Ewing looked at me reluctantly. “It’s . . . Hollybrass. His . . . murder.”
I had put that completely out of my mind.
“What’s that to do with not calling me?” I demanded, drawing closer.
Ewing sprang up and backed away—as if frightened. I turned to Keetch but he seemed suddenly absorbed in his work.
“Something else has happened, hasn’t it?” I said, more and more apprehensive. “What is it?”
“It’s the captain, miss . . .” Keetch began.
“Charlotte!” I broke in angrily.
Keetch drew a hand across his mouth as if to stop it.
“What has happened!” I persisted. “Are you going to tell me or not? Is it some secret?”
Ewing licked his lips. Keetch seemed to be avoiding my eyes. But it was he who said, “The captain told us, when we was committing Hollybrass to the sea, that”— now his darting eyes flicked toward me, then away— “it was you . . . that . . . murdered him.”
My breath all but failed. “Me?” I managed to get out.
“Aye, you.”
“Who could believe such a thing?” I exclaimed. “How? Why?”
“To avenge Zachariah’s death,” Ewing whispered.
I stood there, open-mouthed. “But Zachariah ...” I began, not even sure what I was about to say.
The former second mate looked around at me, his eyes narrowed. “What about Zachariah?” he asked, standing up.
“He’s dead,” I said lamely.
“He’s all of that,” Ewing agreed.
Keetch began to move away quickly. Ewing started to follow. I grabbed his arm.
“Ewing,” I said. “Do you think I did it?”
He shook his arm free. “Captain says that dirk was yours.”
“Ewing . . . I left that dirk in my old cabin.”
“That’s what captain said you’d say.”
I took in his meaning. “You believe him, don’t you?”
He studied his hand.
“And the others?” I wanted to know.
“You’ll have to ask them.”
Deeply shaken, I started for the galley in search of Fisk but changed my mind. It was Captain Jaggery I had to see.
I turned and headed for his cabin. But before I had taken five steps I was confronted by the captain himself coming to the quarterdeck. I stopped in surprise. The man before me was not the same Captain Andrew Jaggery I’d seen on the quarterdeck the first day we sailed. True, he still wore his fine clothes, but the jacket was soiled and showed any number of rips. A cuff was frayed, a button gone. Small points perhaps, but not for a man of his fastidiousness. And the whip mark, though no longer so pronounced, had become a thin white line—like a persistent, painful memory.
“Miss Doyle,” the captain proclaimed for all to hear, “I charge you in the willful murder of Mr. Hollybrass.”
I turned to appeal to the crew—only recently my comrades—who stood looking on.
“I did not do it,” I said.
“Have no fear Miss Doyle. You shall have a jury of your peers. And a speedy trial.”
“It’s a lie,” I said.
“Mr. Barlow,” the captain called, never for a moment turning his cold eyes from me.
Barlow shuffled forward.
“Take the prisoner to the brig,” the captain said, offering up a key that Barlow took. “Miss Doyle, your trial for murder will commence at the first bell of the first dog watch today.”
“Come along, miss,” Barlow whispered.
I shrank back.
“Easy, Charlotte,” he went on, “I’ll not do you harm.”
His words reassured me somewhat. But no other words of comfort came.
The central hatch cover was slid back. Barlow beckoned me to it and under the eyes of all he followed me down the ladder.
We passed by the top cargo—where Barlow lit a lantern—then groped our way into the hold, the bottom of the ship. I had avoided even thinking of the place since the incident of the false head. As far as I could see—which was not very far—it was like some long-forgotten, tunneled dwelling faced with great wood timbers and rough planking grown corrupt with green slime. The area was crammed with barrels and cases, among which only a narrow passageway of planking had been left. Barlow led me forward as the blackened bilge lapped below. The stench was loathsome.
A few feet ahead I saw the brig, not so much a room as a cage of iron bars with a gate for a door. I could make out a stool for sitting. A pan for slops. Nothing more. Had Cranick, poor man, been its last inhabitant?