“Whether you believe me or not, Miss Doyle, it is true,” he said, moving to block me from the exit.
It was my turn to offer him my back.
“Now, that crew,” he continued all the same, “each and every jack of them—once ashore—petitioned the admiralty courts against the captain. It was no use, Miss Doyle. No use. Jaggery had his way. All he needed to say was that Cranick refused a lawful order and he received not one word of censure. It’s a sad commonplace. I’ve yet to see a master charged.
“Ah,” Zachariah pressed on, “but the captain must sail again. Sailing is his life. He has his reputation for fast crossings to keep up, speeds that bring ripe profits. But to sail, even Jaggery needs a crew . . .”
“Mr. Zachariah, I must beg you to refrain—”
“But Andrew Jaggery could find not one other jack to sign with the Seahawk. They were all warned away.”
As soon as he said that my mind went to the Liverpool dock men who fled, the one upon hearing the captain’s name, the other upon seeing the Seahawk.
But the next moment I turned and said, “But Mr. Zachariah, what about these men?”
“On this ship?”
“Yes.”
“Miss Doyle, I only said other men were kept away.”
Suddenly I began to understand. “Are these his former crew?” I asked.
His eyes were hard upon me now, frightening me.
“On the Seahawk?” I demanded.
He nodded. “Only Mr. Hollybrass is new.” Then he added, “And Mr. Cranick could not sign.”
I stared at him for a moment and by sheer force of will said, “If Captain Jaggery was so cruel, why should they have signed on again?”
Zachariah leaned close to me. “Revenge,” he whispered.
“Revenge?” I echoed weakly.
The old man nodded. “Because of all this I gave you that dirk.”
Automatically my hand touched it in my pocket.
“They”—he lowered his voice even as he indicated the deck with a movement of his head—«know your father’s name. They know the captain works for him. They assume you’ll stand . . .”
“Mr. Zachariah,” I cut in with the only voice I had—a faint whisper—«I have nothing but respect for the captain.”
“Exactly.”
For a moment neither of us spoke.
Then Zachariah asked, “Where have you kept this dirk I gave you?”
“Under my mattress.”
“Miss Doyle, I beg of you—keep it there still.”
At that very instant we were startled by a noise. We looked around. It was Mr. Hollybrass, peering at us from behind his shaggy brows like some spy, his frown indicative of his displeasure in seeing us closeted so.
“Miss Doyle,” the first mate said. “Compliments of Captain Jaggery. And would you be kind enough to join him in his quarters for tea?”
Chapter Five
Never had I met with such impertinence! That this Zachariah, my inferior, a cook, should tell such a slanderous tale of violence and cruelty regarding Captain Jaggery to me—as though it were a confidence—was deeply mortifying. I would not, could not believe it! You can imagine then my relief at being rescued by Mr. Hollybrass.
With head held high and fingers smoothing dress and hair as best I could, I hurriedly followed the first mate from the galley to the captain’s cabin—at the far end of the steerage—under the ever-watchful eyes of the crew. More than once I touched the dirk that lay in my pocket. I was resolved to give it to the captain.
Whether or not I should tell the captain what I’d just heard was a more delicate question. To confess that I’d even been spoken to in such an offending fashion would have made me feel acutely uncomfortable. But not to speak of it would smack of complicity.
Before I could make up my mind, Mr. Hollybrass had knocked upon the captain’s door, and upon hearing an “Enter!” he opened it. I stepped forward.
Every other place I’d seen aboard the Seahawk had a rough, crude look, with not the slightest hint of style or culture about them. The captain’s cabin was a world apart.
It extended the full width of the Seahawk. And I found I could stand up in it with room to spare. The walls were richly paneled and hung with miniatures and pretty pastoral prints of dear England. On the back wall—the stern of the ship—there was a row of windows, below which stood a handsome stuffed sofa. A high bed was built into the port side. A desk with neatly stacked charts and nautical instruments in velvet boxes faced it on the starboard wall. Next to the desk was an iron cabinet that I took to be a safe, not unlike my father’s. In one corner I spied a chessboard, pieces at the ready. Finally, a table, with a few chairs about it, had been laid with a silver service for tea.
Had there been no creak and groan of timbers, no rattle of rigging and chain, no hiss of waves, I might have been excused for forgetting that we were at sea.
To complete this elegant picture, Captain Jaggery sat upon one of a pair of armchairs in fine full dress, an open book on his knee. It was, in fact, the Bible. When I came in he rose to his feet and made an elegant bow.
Could anything be in greater contrast to my meeting with Zachariah? I was charmed.
“Miss Doyle,” he said, “how kind of you to visit.”
Wishing to present myself in the best possible fashion, I moved forward with one hand out. He took it graciously. Then he turned to the first mate. “Mr. Hollybrass,” he said briskly, “that will be all.”
Mr. Hollybrass presented a salute and retired.
“Miss Doyle,” Captain Jaggery continued with a gracious smile even as he carefully closed and put down his Bible, “would you be good enough to sit.” He held the other upholstered seat out for me.
“Thank you,” I said, thrilled to be treated in this lady like fashion.
“You seem surprised,” he said, “to find such fine things in my cabin.”
I blushed that he should discover me so. “It is very nice,” I admitted.
“How gracious of you to appreciate it,” he said soothingly. “It’s not often I have a person of cultivation—like you—aboard my ship to notice. I fear a crew such as mine has little liking for good taste or, alas, order. It offends them. But then, you and I—people of our class—we understand the better things of life, don’t we?”
Again I blushed, this time with pleasure.
“May I,” he said, “offer you some tea?”
I was awash with tea, but was not about to refuse him.
“Some biscuits?” He offered a tin of Scottish thins. I took one and nibbled daintily. Crisp and buttery. Delitious.
“A ship like the Seahawk,” he went on, “is not designed for comfort, but for commerce, for making money. Still, I do the best I can.” He poured a cup of tea for himself.
“I was informed,” he said, resuming his seat, “that you had recovered, and was so glad to hear it. May I urge you, Miss Doyle, to promenade in the fresh air as much as possible. You will soon be as healthy—healthier—than you ever were.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“It is regrettable that those other two families could not join us. They would have made your voyage that much more pleasant. Mine too.”
“Yes, sir.”
He smiled. “Do you know, I have a daughter.”
“Do you?”
He got up, removed a little picture from a wall, and held it up for me to see. It was the face of a dear little child, her eyes large, her mouth sweet. “Victoria is her name. She’s only five. Some day I hope to have her and her mother on board with me. But for the moment the child is too delicate.”