Barlow unlocked the rusty padlock on the gate. It took a yanking to free it.
“You’ll want to go in,” he said.
I hesitated. “You’ll leave the light, won’t you?” I asked.
Barlow shook his head. “If it tumbled we’d have a fire.”
“But it will be completely dark.”
He shrugged.
I stepped inside. Barlow closed the gate and locked it. For a moment I just stood helplessly, watching him move away. Suddenly frightened, I called, “Barlow!”
He paused to peer back over a shoulder.
“Do you think I killed Mr. Hollybrass?”
He considered for a moment. “I don’t know, Charlotte,” he said wearily.
“You must think someone did,” I cried, wanting to hold him there as much as I wanted answers.
“I don’t know if I allow myself to think,” he offered and made hastily for the ladder.
Utterly discouraged, I remained standing in the dark. All about me I heard the hollow groans of the ship, the cargo creaking, water dripping and sloshing, rustling, a sudden squeaking of rats.
Nearly sick with fright I felt about for the stool. I sank down upon it, reminding myself I wouldn’t have to stay there for long. Captain Jaggery had promised a trial for that very day. But what kind of trial? Zachariah’s words filled my head, that a captain is sheriff, judge, jury . . . and hangman too.
Shivering, I bent over and hugged myself to my knees. Without the crew on my side it would be hard put to prove my innocence. I knew that. Yet they seemed to have turned against me. Of all misfortunes that was the most hurtful to bear.
I shifted the stool so I could lean back against the rear bars of the brig, then closed my eyes against the dark. I ran my fingers through my hair but the gesture only reminded me I’d hacked it short. For a brief moment I caught a distant vision of myself as I had been before the Seahawk, before this tumultuous voyage. Was it days or years that had passed since?
I was speculating thus when I heard a different kind of noise. At first I ignored it. But when it came again, a slow, hesitant sound, almost like a human step, I opened my eyes wide and stared into the dark. Was this too my imagination?
The sound drew closer. My heart began to pound. “Who’s there!” I called out.
After a moment I heard, “Charlotte? Is that you?”
I leaped to my feet.
“Who is it?” I cried.
By way of answer the shuffling drew closer, then suddenly stopped. Now I was certain I heard labored breath ing. A spark burst forth. Then a tiny light. Before me loomed the ancient head of Zachariah.
Chapter Seventeen
His face appeared to be floating in air. Terrified, I could only stare into his hollow and unseeing eyes, for so they seemed in the flickering light.
“Is that you Charlotte?” came a voice. His voice.
“What are you?” I managed to ask.
The head drew closer. “Don’t you know me?” the voice said.
I stammered, “Are you . . . real?”
“Charlotte, don’t you see me?” came the voice, more insistent than before. Now the light—it was a small candle—was held up and I could see more of him. The very image of Zachariah—but sadly altered too. In life he had never appeared strong or large. In death he’d become shriveled, gray-bearded.
“What do you want?” I demanded, shrinking back into the furthest corner of the brig.
“To help you,” the voice said.
“But you died,” I whispered. “I saw your funeral. They wrapped you in your hammock and dropped you into the sea.”
A soft laugh. His laugh. “Close to death surely, Charlotte, but not altogether dead. Come, touch me. See for yourself.”
Cautiously, I moved forward, reached out, and touched his hand. Real flesh. And warmth. “And the hammock?” I wondered in astonishment.
He laughed again. “A full hammock to be sure, but empty of me. It’s an old sailor’s trick. No doubt if I’d remained in Jaggery’s hands I would have died.”
“Have you been in the hold all along?”
“Ever since.”
I could only stare.
“Keetch brings me food and water every day,” he continued. “The food’s not as good as I would have prepared, but enough to keep me alive. Look here, Charlotte, if poor Cranick could hide, why not Zachariah? It was Keetch’s notion.”
“Why wasn’t I told?”
“It was decided not to tell you.”
“Why?”
“You forget, Charlotte—you informed upon us.”
“That was then, Zachariah,” I said, my face burning.
“True enough. And I have been told about you, young soul of justice. There’s much to be admired. I salute you.”
“I wanted to fill your place.”
He smiled. “Didn’t I once say how much we were alike? A prophecy! But you’re not regretting I’m alive, are you?”
“No, of course not. But if I hadn’t caught sight of you during the storm would I ever have seen you?”
“I cannot say.”
“The captain might have discovered you then. Why did you come up?”
“What would be the point of staying here and perishing when I could have been of help?”
“You saved me from falling.”
“One shipmate helps another.”
“But what about Captain Jaggery?” I asked. “Does he know you’re here?”
“Now, Charlotte, do you think if he believed me alive he’d allow me here for even a moment? Do you?”
“I suppose not,” I admitted.
“There you are. That’s all the proof I need that he doesn’t know. The hope is this,” he went on. “When the Seahawk reaches Providence—not very long from now, I understand—you shall see, Jaggery will keep the crew on board, not wanting them to talk to anyone. But I’ll be able to get off. And when I do I’ll go to the authorities to expose him for what he is. Now what do you think?”
Even as I grasped the plan I felt a pang of embarrassment that compelled me to turn away.
“What’s the matter?”
The pain in my heart made it impossible for me to speak.
“Tell me,” he coaxed.
“Zachariah ...”
“What?”
“You’re . . . a black man.”
“That I am. But this state of Rhode Island where we’re going, it has no more slaves.” He suddenly checked him self. “Or am I wrong?”
“A black man, Zachariah, a common sailor, testifying against a white officer ...” I didn’t have the heart to finish.
“Ah, but Charlotte, didn’t you once tell me it was your father who’s part of the company that owns the Seahawk ? You did. The plan is to go to him. You’ll give me a good character, won’t you? And if he’s like you, there’s nothing to fear.”
A tremor of unease passed through me. I wasn’t sure what to say. I stole a glance at him. “What about Cranick?” I asked. “Did he die? Truly?”
“More’s the pity,” he said with a shake of his head and a lapse into silence. Then he looked up. “Now then,” he said, “I have talked too much of myself. I saw Barlow bring you here, and lock you in. Did you mock Jaggery again?”
I was taken aback. “Didn’t anyone tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“Zachariah . . . Mr. Hollybrass was murdered.”
“Murdered!” he cried. “When?”
“During the storm.”
“I wasn’t told.”
“Why not?”