The whole area was frightfully confining, offering no sense of comfort that I could see. And a stench of rot permeated the air.
“This way,” I heard Mr. Keetch say again. He had opened a door on my left. “Your cabin, miss. The one contracted for.” A gesture invited me to enter.
I gasped. The cabin was but six feet in length. Four feet wide. Four and a half feet high. I, none too tall, could only stoop to see in.
“Regular passengers pay a whole six pounds for this, miss,” Mr. Keetch advised me, his voice much softer.
I forced myself to take a step into the cabin. Against the opposite wall I could make out a narrow shelf, partly framed by boarding. When I noticed something that looked like a pillow and a blanket, I realized it was meant to be a bed. Then, when Mr. Keetch held up the light, I saw something crawl over it.
“What’s that?” I cried.
“Roach, miss. Every ship has ’em.”
As for the rest of the furnishings, there were none save a small built-in chest in the bulkhead wall, the door of which dropped down and served as a desktop. There was nothing else. No porthole. No chair. Not so much as a single piece of polite ornamentation. It was ugly, unnatural, and, as I stooped there, impossible.
In a panic I turned toward Mr. Keetch, wanting to utter some new protest. Alas, he had gone—and had shut the door behind him as though to close the spring on a trap.
How long I remained hunched in that tiny, dark hole, I am not sure. What aroused me was a knock on the door. Startled, I gasped, “Come in.”
The door opened. Standing there was a shockingly decrepit old sailor, a tattered tar-covered hat all but crushed in his gnarled and trembling hands. His clothing was poor, his manner cringing.
“Yes?” I managed to say.
“Miss, your trunk is here.”
I looked beyond the door to the trunk’s bulky outline. I saw at once how absurd it would be to even attempt bringing it into my space.
The sailor understood. “She’s too big, isn’t she?” he said.
“I think so,” I stammered.
“Best put it in top cargo,” he offered. “Right below. You can always fetch things there, miss.”
“Yes, top cargo,” I echoed without knowing what I was saying.
“Very good, miss,” the man said, and then pulled his forelock as a signal of obedience and compliance to a suggestion that he himself had made. But instead of going he just stood there.
“Yes?” I asked miserably.
“Begging your pardon, miss,” the man murmured, his look more hangdog than ever. “Barlow’s the name and though it’s not my business or place to tell you, miss, some of the others here, Jack Tars like myself, have deputized me to say that you shouldn’t be on this ship. Not alone as you are. Not this ship. Not this voyage, miss.”
“What do you mean?” I said, frightened anew. “Why would they say that?”
“You’re being here will lead to no good, miss. No good at all. You’d be better off far from the Seahawk.”
Though all my being agreed with him, my training—that it was wrong for a man of his low station to presume to advise me of anything—rose to the surface. I drew myself up. “Mr. Barlow,” I said stiffly, “it’s my father who has arranged it all.”
“Very good, miss,” he said, pulling at his forelock again. “I’ve but done my duty, which is what I’m deputized to do.” And before I could speak further he scurried off.
I wanted to run after him, to cry, “Yes, for God’s sake, get me off!” But, again, there was nothing in me that allowed for such behavior.
Indeed, I was left with a despairing resolve never to leave the cabin until we reached America. Steadfastly I shut my door. But by doing so I made the space completely dark, and I quickly moved to keep it ajar.
I was exhausted and desired greatly to sit down. But there was no place to sit! My next thought was to lie down. Trying to put notions of vermin out of mind, I made a move toward my bed but discovered that it was too high for me to reach easily in my skirts. Then suddenly I realized I must relieve myself! But where was I to go? I had not the slightest idea!
If you will be kind enough to recollect that during my life I had never once—not for a moment—been without the support, the guidance, the protection of my elders, you will accept my words as being without exaggeration when I tell you that at that moment I was certain I had been placed in a coffin. My coffin. It’s hardly to be wondered, then, that I burst into tears of vexation, crying with fear, rage, and humiliation.
I was still stooped over, crying, when yet another knock came on my cabin door. Attempting to stifle my tears I turned about to see an old black man who, in the light of the little lantern he was holding, looked like the very imp of death in search of souls.
His clothing, what I could see of it, was even more decrepit than the previous sailor’s, which is to say, mostly rags and tatters. His arms and legs were as thin as marlinspikes. His face, as wrinkled as a crumpled napkin, was flecked with the stubble of white beard. His tightly curled hair was thin. His lips were slack. Half his teeth were missing. When he smiled—for that is what I assumed he was attempting—he offered only a scattering of stumps. But his eyes seemed to glow with curiosity and were all the more menacing because of it.
“Yes?” I managed to say.
“At your service, Miss Doyle.” The man spoke with a surprisingly soft, sweet voice. “And wondering if you might not like a bit of tea. I have my own special store, and I’m prepared to offer some.”
It was the last thing I expected to hear. “That’s very kind of you,” I stammered in surprise. “Could you bring it here?”
The old man shook his head gently. “If Miss Doyle desires tea—captain’s orders—she must come to the galley.”
“Galley?”
“Kitchen to you, miss.”
“Who are you?” I demanded faintly.
“Zachariah,” he returned. “Cook, surgeon, carpenter, and preacher to man and ship. And,” he added, “all those things to you too, miss, in that complete order if comes the doleful need. Now then, shall you have tea?”
In fact, the thought of tea was extraordinarily comforting, a reminder that the world I knew had not entirely vanished. I couldn’t resist. “Very well,” I said, “Would you lead me to the . . . galley?”
“Most assuredly,” was the old man’s reply. Stepping away from the door, he held his lantern high. I made my way out.
We proceeded to walk along the passageway to the right, then up the short flight of steps to the waist of the ship—that low deck area between fore- and quarterdeck. Here and there lanterns glowed; masts, spars, and rigging vaguely sketched the dim outlines of the net in which I felt caught. I shuddered.
The man called Zachariah led me down another flight of steps into what appeared to be a fairly large area. In the dimness I could make out piles of sails, as well as extra rigging—all chaotic and unspeakably filthy. Then, off to one side, I saw a small room. The old man went to it, started to enter, but paused and pointed to a small adjacent door that I had not noticed.
“The head, miss.”
“The what?”
“Privy.”
My cheeks burned. Even so, never have I felt—secretly—so grateful. Without a word I rushed to use it. In moments I returned. Zachariah was waiting patiently. Without further ado he went into the galley. I followed with trepidation, stopping at the threshold to look about.