I scurried back into the brig. Zachariah hastened to close the bars. Then he retrieved his water jug and disappeared from my side. I did not know where.
I looked toward the ladder and saw Captain Jaggery descending slowly. He carried a lantern and had a pistol tucked into his belt.
When he reached the foot of the ladder he paused and looked about, as if making an inspection of the hold. Finally he approached the brig. There he lifted the lantern and scrutinized me as if I were some thing. It was a look filled with a hatred such as I had never seen before—or since—its clear, precise intensity given greater force by his state of personal disorder, his unkempt hair, his dirty face, the trembling muscle along his jaw.
At last he said, “Miss Doyle, to have murdered a shipmate—an officer—is a capital offense. The penalty for such an act is death by hanging. Let me assure you, a trial is not required, the evidence being altogether clear. I have the right to sentence you without trial. But I insist that you have your ‘fairness.’ It shall not be me who judges you. I’m not such a fool as that. No, the judgment will be made by those whom you have taken as your equals, your shipmates.”
So saying he undid the padlock on the brig and pulled the gate open.
“So be it, Miss Doyle. Your trial commences.”
Chapter Eighteen
When I emerged on deck from the dark hold, the very perfection of the day—bright sun, dazzling blue sky, clouds both full and white—made me shade my eyes. And though the Seahawk pitched and rolled gently upon the softest of seas, I felt as though my legs would give way under me. For when I was able to look about I saw that the captain had arranged a kind of courtroom.
In the ship’s waist, on the starboard side, he had assembled the crew in two rows, some sitting on the deck, the rest standing behind the front rank. Before them—atop the central cargo hatch—a chair had been placed. The captain hurried me past the crew—none of whom would look me in the eye—and instructed me to sit in the chair, saying it would serve as the prisoner’s dock.
Now he took his place in one of his fine cabin chairs. It had been set up high behind the quarterdeck rail, a rail that he pounded sharply with the butt of his pistol.
“I proclaim this court to be in session in strict accordance with the law,” he said. “Considering the over whelming evidence against the accused, it needn’t be held at all. But as I have told Miss Doyle, she will enjoy the benefit of my generosity.”
So saying he now took up his Bible, and though he had just seated himself, rose abruptly and brought it down to the crew. It was Fisk he approached first.
“Place your hand upon this,” he demanded.
Fisk did as he was ordered, but, clearly unnerved, touched the book as one might a hot plate.
“Do you, Mr. Fisk,” the captain intoned, “swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
Fisk hesitated. He glanced quickly at me.
“Do you?” Captain Jaggery pressed.
“Yes,” Fisk replied finally in a hollow whisper.
Satisfied, the captain went on to the next man, then the next, until he had sworn in the entire crew.
From the solemnity that showed upon their faces, from their nervous fidgets and downcast eyes, it was clear to me that the men were mightily unsettled by the oath they had been made to take. They could not take the Bible lightly.
But I was certain each of them believed—as I did—that the murder was done by Zachariah, whom they themselves had conspired to hide in the hold. It was to him they would remain steadfast, not me. They would tell the truth, but in such a way as to protect Zachariah. How could I disagree?
Once Captain Jaggery had sworn in the crew, he approached me. I too laid my hand on his Bible. I too promised to tell the truth even as I knew I would not speak it completely.
The swearing done the captain returned to his chair and again banged his pistol on the rail. “Will the accused stand,” he said.
I stood.
“Before this court,” he continued, “I, Andrew Jaggery, by my rightful authority as master of the Seahawk, charge you, Charlotte Doyle, with the unnatural murder of Samuel Hollybrass, late of Portsmouth, England, first mate on the Seahawk. Miss Doyle, how plead you?”
“Captain Jaggery ...” I tried to protest.
“How plead you Miss Doyle?” he repeated sternly.
“I did not do it.”
“Then you plead innocent.”
“Yes, innocent.”
“Miss Doyle,” he asked, with what I could have sworn was a slight smile about his lips, “do you desire to withdraw your claim to being a member of this crew? That is to say, do you wish to hide behind your father’s name, and thus avoid judgment by these men?”
I turned slightly so as to consider the crew. They were gazing at me intently but offered nothing to help. Though I sensed a trap in the question, I was loath to abandon my trust in the men just when I most needed them.
“Miss Doyle, do you wish to be judged by these men or not?”
“I trust them,” I said finally.
“Do you wish to charge someone else with the act of murder?”
“No,” I said.
“Let it thus be understood,” Jaggery declared, “that the accused insists she be judged by this court, and further, charges no one else with this crime.” So saying, he pulled a log book onto his lap, and with pen in hand, wrote down my words.
When done, he looked up. “Miss Doyle, do you agree that someone murdered Mr. Hollybrass?”
“Yes.”
“Someone on the Seahawk?”
“It has to be.”
“Exactly. Someone on this ship. And at the moment you are the only one accused.”
“You have accused me.”
“But given the opportunity, Miss Doyle, you accused no one else.” It was clear this was a major point with him. All I could reply was, “Yes.”
The captain made a note in his book, then shifted his attention to the crew. “Is there any man here who is willing to defend this prisoner?”
I turned to the men whom I’d begun to call friends. Ewing. Barlow. Fisk. Not one of them would look at me.
“No one?” the captain asked mockingly.
No one.
“Very well,” the captain went on. “Miss Doyle, you will have to defend yourself.”
“They are frightened of you,” I said. “They won’t speak because—”
“Miss Doyle,” he interrupted, “is it not my right, my responsibility, as master of this ship, to determine who used the knife and for what reasons?”
“Yes, but—”
Again he cut in. “Have I asked for anything but the truth?”
“No . . .”
“And a murder was committed by someone on this ship. That is not open to question. But have you so much as hinted it was someone else?”
“No, but—”
“Miss Doyle, although none of these men wishes to defend you they have all sworn to speak the truth. Can you ask for anything more than that?”
Again I said nothing.
“Very well. We shall begin.”
He leaned back in his chair, log book still in his lap, pen in hand, pistol at the ready. “We have agreed that Mr. Hollybrass was murdered. Is there anyone here who believes he was killed by other than this weapon?”
He held up the dirk. No one spoke.
The captain continued. “Let us now determine its ownership. Miss Doyle,” he asked, “do you recognize this knife?”