“. . . he died,” I said softly. “Flogged to death.”
“Who flogged him?”
“You did, unmercifully.”
“Anyone else?”
“Mr. Hollybrass.”
“Mr. Hollybrass. Why was Mr. Zachariah being flogged?”
“There was no reason.”
“No reason? Did he not take part in a mutiny?”
“He had every right to . . .”
“A right to mutiny?”
“Yes.”
“You yourself, Miss Doyle—in great fear, if I remember—informed me that a mutiny was about to occur. Mr. Zachariah was one of the participants. Yet you think it unfair to flog him?”
“You wanted to kill him.”
“So you were angry at me?”
I looked into his glinting eyes. “Yes,” I declared, “deservedly so.”
“And at Mr. Hollybrass?”
After a moment I again said, “Yes.”
“Mr. Zachariah was a particular friend of yours, was he not, Miss Doyle?”
“Yes.”
“A black man.”
“He was my friend!”
“So you resented his being given the punishment he deserved.”
“It was not deserved.”
“Is murder an unnatural act, Miss Doyle?”
“Yes.”
“Is the way you dress unnatural?”
“Not for the work I do . . .”
“What work is that?”
“As member of the crew.”
“Is being a crew member not unnatural for a girl?”
“Unusual,” I insisted. “Not unnatural.”
“Your hair?”
“I could not work with it long!”
“Work?”
“I am one of this crew.”
“Unnatural,” he said.
“Unusual,” said I.
“So we have in you, Miss Doyle,” the captain pressed on, “an unnatural girl, dressing in unnatural ways, doing unnatural things, owning the very knife that killed Mr. Hollybrass. And Mr. Hollybrass was the man you disliked for flogging your particular black friend—”
“You make it seem all wrong when it isn’t!” I cried out.
He turned to the crew. “Does anyone wish to make a statement on this girl’s behalf?”
No one spoke.
“Miss Doyle,” he said, “Do you wish to say anything?”
“My father—”
“Miss Doyle,” the captain cried out, “when we began I offered you the opportunity of claiming the protection of your father. You refused it then!”
Miserable, I could only bow my head.
He turned to the crew. “Does anyone wish to make a statement on this girl’s behalf?”
No one spoke.
“Miss Doyle,” he said. “Do you wish to say anything?”
Miserable, I could only shake my head.
“Very well. I must declare a verdict.”
He stood. “As master of the Seahawk, it is my judgment that this unnatural girl, this Charlotte Doyle, is guilty of the crime of murdering Samuel Hollybrass.”
For a final time he turned to the crew. “Is there anyone who wishes to speak against this verdict?”
No one spoke.
“Miss Doyle,” he said to me, “have you anything to say on your behalf now?”
“I did not do it!”
“Miss Doyle, the facts have spoken otherwise. I wish to inform you that the penalty for such a crime is to be hanged by the neck from the yardarm. Within twenty-four hours you shall be hanged until you are dead.”
So saying, he brought down his pistol hard upon the rail.
The trial was over.
Chapter Nineteen
Without another word Captain Jaggery led me back to the hold and locked me in the brig. I turned from him, but I believe he stood there, considering me for a while by the gloomy light of his lamp. Then he left. I heard his retreating footfalls and the creak of the ladder, saw the light gradually fade away until the hold grew completely dark again. At last I slumped onto the stool. And though it was dark I closed my eyes.
Startled by a sound I looked up. Zachariah, a candle in his hand, was standing before me.
Silently, he circled the brig and pulled out the bars. I crept from my cage and we sat down close together, backs once more against a barrel, the little candle before us. I told him all that had happened. He remained silent, nodding now and again.
By the time I was done I was weeping copiously. Zachariah let me sob. He waited for my last sniffle, then asked, “How much time does he give you?”
“Twenty-four hours,” I murmured.
“Charlotte,” he said softly, “he’ll not see it through.”
“He does what he says he’ll do,” I said bitterly. “You said as much yourself. And he has the whole crew agreeing with his judgment. He was that careful. Punctilious,” I spat out, remembering the word the captain had used to describe himself.
“I don’t know the word.”
“Everything in order.”
“Aye, that’s him.” Zachariah rubbed the stubble around his chin. “And did no one stand up for you?” he asked.
“No one.”
He shook his head. “It’s that I don’t understand.”
I looked up. “Don’t you?” For the first time I felt my anger turn toward him. “Why?”
“Had they not become your friends?”
“I have no friends.”
“You must not say that, Charlotte. Didn’t I tell you right from the beginning: you and me—together.”
I shook my head at the memory.
“What’s this?” he said, trying to laugh my response away. “Not friends?”
“Zachariah,” I burst out, “I am going to be hanged!”
He made a gesture of dismissal. “You won’t.”
“How can you be so sure!”
“I won’t let him.”
“You? You’d have to show yourself. What of your plan to go to the authorities?”
“I’ll give it up.”
“After all that’s happened?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t believe you!”
“Charlotte, why should you say that?”
When I kept silent he said, “Come now, Charlotte, something else is preying upon your thoughts. Something bitter. You must have it out.”
“Don’t tell me what I must and must not do!” I cried. “That’s for Jaggery.”
“Forgive me. This old black man humbly requests you tell him what’s beset your mind.”
“Zachariah,” I blurted out, “you haven’t told me the truth.”
He turned to look hard at me. “You must explain your self.”
I retreated to the brig.
He pulled himself closer, pressing his face to the bars. “Charlotte!” he insisted. “Now I am truly begging. Tell me what you mean.”
“Zachariah,” I said, tearful again, “I know who killed Mr. Hollybrass.”
“Then why don’t you speak it out so I can hear?” he said sharply.
“I’m waiting for him to say it himself,” I threw back.
He sighed. “There’s an old seaman’s saying, Miss Doyle: the Devil will tie any knot, save the hangman’s noose. That Jack does for himself. Your silence is foolish. I beg of you, who do you think it is?”
I pressed my lips tight.
“Miss Doyle,” he said, “if you want to save your life you will tell me. I am trying to help you, but I cannot manage it without your thoughts. You have some choices, Miss Doyle. Shall I make them clear? Do you prefer to dangle from a yardarm by your neck? Or do you wish to walk free? What do you want, Miss Doyle?”
“To live.”
He sighed. “Then speak.”
“Mr. Zachariah,” I said with increasing weariness, “I already told you, I want the man to come forward himself.”