by Avi
“Steady on,” the captain said.
“Steady on,” Foley repeated.
Now it was Mr. Hollybrass who approached the helm. The moment he did so Captain Jaggery hailed him.
“Mr. Hollybrass!”
“Sir!”
“As convenient, Mr. Hollybrass, send Mr. Barlow to Miss Doyle. She needs to learn where her trunk was stowed.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Miss Doyle,” the captain said to me, “please be so good as to follow Mr. Hollybrass. I have enjoyed our conversation and look forward to many more.”
Then and there—beneath the eyes of all the crew—he took up my hand, bowed over it, and touched his lips to my fingers. I fairly glowed with pride. Finally I followed—perhaps floated is a better word—after Mr. Hollybrass. Barely concealing a look of disdain for the captain’s farewell to me, he made his way across the quarterdeck and stood at the rail overlooking the ship’s waist. There he studied the men while they continued to adjust the rigging, now and again barking a command to work one rope or another.
“Mr. Barlow,” he called out at last.
“Here, sir!” came a response from on high.
Some sixty feet above I saw the man.
“Get you down!” Mr. Hollybrass cried.
Despite his decrepit appearance, Barlow was as dexterous as a monkey. He clambered across the foreyard upon which he had been perched, reached the mast, then the rigging, and on this narrow thread of rope he seemed to actually run until he dropped upon the deck with little or no sound.
“Aye, aye, sir,” he said, no more out of breath than I—or rather less than I, for to see him at such heights moving at such speeds had taken my breath away.
“Mr. Barlow,” Hollybrass said. “Miss Doyle needs her trunk. I understand you know where it is.”
“I put it in top steerage, sir.”
“Be so good as to lead her to it.”
“Yes, sir.” Barlow had not yet looked my way. Now, with a shy nod, and a touch to his forelock, he did so. I understood I was to follow.
The normal entry to the cargo areas is through the hatchway located in the center of the ship’s waist. Since that was lashed down for the voyage, Barlow led me another way, to a ladder beneath the mates’ mess table—in steerage—just opposite my cabin door.
After setting aside the candle he’d brought along, he scrambled under the mess table, then pulled open a winged hatch door that was built flush into the floor. Once he had his candle lit, I saw him twist about and drop partway down the hole.
“If you please, miss,” he beckoned.
Distasteful though it was, I had little choice in the matter. I crawled on hands and knees, backed into the hole, and climbed down twelve rungs—a distance of about eight or nine feet.
“Here, miss,” Barlow said at my side, next to the ladder. “You don’t want to go down to the hold.”
I looked beneath me and saw that the ladder continued into what appeared to be a black pit.
“More cargo,” he explained laconically. “Rats and roaches too. And a foul bilge. That’s where the brig is.”
“Brig?”
“The ship’s jail.”
“A jail on a ship?”
“Captain Jaggery wouldn’t sail without, miss.”
I shuddered in disgust.
Barlow held out one of his hard, gnarled hands. Reluctantly I took it and did a little jump to the top cargo deck. Only then did I look about.
It was a great, wood-ribbed cavern I had come to, which—because Barlow’s candlelight reached only so far—melted into blackness fore and aft. I recall being struck by the notion that I was—Jonah-like—in the belly of a whale. The air was heavy, with the pervasive stench of rot that made me gag.
“What’s that?” I asked, pointing to a cylinder from which pipes ran, and to which handles were attached.
“The pump,” he said. “In case we take on sea.”
In all directions I saw the kinds of bales, barrels, and boxes I had seen upon the Liverpool docks. The sight was not romantic now. These goods were piled higgledy-piggledy one atop the other, braced and restrained here and there by ropes and wedges, but mostly held in place by their own bulk. The whole reminded me of a great tumble of toy blocks jammed into a box.
“There’s more below,” Barlow said, observing me look about. “But your trunk’s over there.” Sure enough, I saw it up along the alleyway created by two stacks of cargo.
“Would you open it, please?” I requested.
Barlow undid the hasps and flung open the top. There lay my clothing, wrapped in tissue paper and laid out beautifully. The school maids had done a fine job. A sigh escaped my lips at this glimpse of another world.
“I can’t take everything,” I said.
“Well, miss,” Barlow said, “now that you know where it is, you could fetch things on your own.”
“That’s true,” I said, and, kneeling, began to lift the layers carefully.
After a while Barlow said, “If it pleases, miss, might I have a word?”
“You see I’m very busy Mr. Barlow,” I murmured.
For a moment the sailor said nothing, though I was conscious of his nervous presence behind me.
“Miss,” he said unexpectedly, “you know I spoke out when you first arrived.”
“I have tried to forget it, Mr. Barlow,” I said with some severity.
“You shouldn’t, miss. You shouldn’t.”
His earnest, pleading tone made me pause. “What do you mean?”
“Just now, miss, the captain put us on display. All that hauling and pulling. It was to no account. Mocking us—”
“Mr. Barlow!” I interrupted.
“It’s true, miss. He’s abusing us. And you. Mark my words. No good will come of it.”
I pressed my hands to my ears.
After a moment the man said, “All right, miss. I’ll leave you with the candle. You won’t go into the hold now, will you?”
“I shall be fine, Mr. Barlow,” I declared. “Please leave me.”
So engrossed was I in my explorations of my trunk that I ceased paying him any attention. Only vaguely did I hear him retreat and ascend the ladder. But when I was sure he was gone I did turn about. He had set the candle on the floor near where the ladder led further into the hold. Though the flame flickered in a draft, I was satisfied it would burn a while. I turned back to my trunk.
As I knelt there, making the difficult but delicious choice between this petticoat and that—searching too for a book suitable for reading to the crew as the captain had suggested—the sensation crept upon me that there was something else hovering about, a presence, if you will, something I could not define.
At first I tried to ignore the feeling. But no matter how much I tried it could not be denied. Of course it was not exactly quiet down below. No place on a ship is. There were the everlasting creaks and groans. I could hear the sloshing of the bilge water in the hold, and the rustling of all I preferred not to put a name to—such as the rats Barlow had mentioned. But within moments I was absolutely certain—though how I knew I cannot tell—that it was a person who was watching me.
As this realization took hold, I froze in terror. Then slowly I lifted my head and stared before me over the lid of the trunk. As far as I could see, no one was there.
My eyes swept to the right. No one. To the left. Again, nothing. There was but one other place to look, behind. Just the thought brought a prickle to the back of my neck until, with sudden panic, I whirled impulsively about.
There, jutting up from the hole through which the hold might be reached, was a grinning head, its eyes fixed right on me.
I shrieked. The next moment the candle went out and I was plunged into utter darkness.
I WAS TOO FRIGHTENED TO CRY OUT AGAIN. INSTEAD I REMAINED ABSOLUTELY STILL, CROUCHING IN PITCH BLACKNESS WHILE the wash of ship sounds eddied about me, sounds now intensified by the frantic knocking of my heart. Then I recollected that Zachariah’s di
rk was still with me. With a shaking hand I reached into the pocket where I’d put it, took it out, and removed its wooden sheath, which slipped through my clumsy fingers and clattered noisily to the floor.
“Is someone there?” I called, my voice thin, wavering.
No answer.
After what seemed forever I repeated, more boldly than before, “Is someone there?”
Still nothing happened. Not the smallest breath of response. Not the slightest stir.
Gradually, my eyes became accustomed to the creaking darkness. I could make out the ladder descending from the deck, a square of dim light above. From that point I could follow the line of the ladder down to where it plunged into the hold below. At that spot, at the edge of the hole, I could see the head more distinctly. Its eyes were glinting wickedly, its lips contorted into a grim, satanic smirk.
Horrified, I nonetheless stared back. And the longer I did so the more it dawned on me that the head had not in fact moved—not at all. The features, I saw, remained unnaturally fixed. Finally, I found the courage to edge aside my fear and lean forward—the merest trifle—to try and make out who—or what—was there.
With the dirk held awkwardly before me I began to crawl forward. The closer I inched the more distorted and grotesque grew the head’s features. It appeared to be positively inhuman.
When I drew within two feet of it I stopped and waited. Still the head did not move, did not blink an eye. It seemed as if it were dead.
With trembling fingers I reached out and managed to brush the thing, just lightly enough to sense that it was hard—like a skull. At first I cringed, but then puzzlement began to replace fear. I touched the head more forcibly. This time it rolled to one side, as though twisting down upon a shoulder yet all the while glaring hideously at me. I pulled back.
By then I had drawn close enough so that, accustomed to the dark, my eyes could make out the head more or less distinctly. I realized that this humanlike face was a grotesque carving cut into some large, brown nut.
Emboldened, I felt for it again, trying to grasp it. That time the head quivered, teetered over the edge of the hold, then dropped. I heard it crash, roll about, then cease to make any sound at all.
Torn between annoyance for what I had done and relief not to be in any danger, I put the dirk back into my pocket—I never did find the sheath—retrieved the candle and started climbing the ladder. Halfway up I remembered my clothing, the reason for my being below in the first instance. For a moment I hung midpoint wondering if I should go back and fetch some of what I needed.
Insisting to myself that there was nothing to worry about, I groped my way back to the trunk, feeling for and taking up what I had previously laid out. Then I turned, half expecting to see the head again—but of course I did not—and rung by rung, squeezing clothing and books under my arm, climbed to the top of the ladder. After closing the hatch’s double doors, I crawled out from beneath the table and retreated hastily to my cabin.
There I changed my clothes, and soon felt quite calm again. I was able to reflect on all that had just happened.
The first question was, what exactly had I seen? A grotesque carving, I told myself, though I had to admit I couldn’t be sure. Even if it was a carving, could a carving reasonably put out a candle? Surely that must have been done by a human hand. My thoughts fastened upon Barlow.
On further reflection, however, I was quite convinced that—other than the candle—Barlow had been empty-handed. Yes, I was certain of it. Besides, though I hardly knew the man, he seemed too submissive, too beaten about, to be capable of such a malicious trick. After all, it was he who had warned me twice about possible trouble.
But—if it had not been Barlow, there must have been a second person, someone to place the head where I’d seen it. Once I put my mind to that possibility, I realized with a start that, yes, I had seen two faces.
The first one—I was mortally certain—had been a human’s, belonging to the person who snuffed out the candle and who then, under cover of dark, set up the carving to deceive and frighten me.
Though I prided myself on my ability to remember sights and sounds, I was unable to make a match at all between that face and any man I had seen among the crew. Someone new? That was impossible. We were at sea. Visitors did not stop to call!
Very well then, I reasoned, the person in the hold had to be someone I’d simply not recognized. After all, my sighting was the quickest of glimpses. But if I could not identify who it was then the next question became: why had he shown himself?
Why indeed? To frighten me! I had no doubt about that. Well then, to what end? To make me think that what I’d seen was not real? I recalled Barlow’s words: perhaps I was being warned.
But why, I wondered, should anyone want to warn me? True, I had been told not to board the ship. And Zachariah’s words concerning the crew and their desire to be revenged on Captain Jaggery for his so-called cruelty were unnerving—even if I did not believe them. Then too, I reminded myself of the captain’s own warning that the black man was given to exaggeration.
There were too many puzzles. Too many complexities. Unable to fathom the mystery I ended up scolding myself, convinced that I was making something out of nothing.
This then was my conclusion: it was I who had not seen properly. The candle—I decided—must have been blown out by a sudden current of air. As for the carving, no doubt it had been there all along. I simply had not noticed it.
Thus I forced myself to believe that I had acted the part of a foolish schoolgirl too apt to make the worst of strange surroundings. And so I found a way to set aside my worries and fears.
“There now,” I said aloud, “the proof is this: has anything bad really happened?” To this I was forced to say: discomfort, well yes; but ill treatment? No, not really.
Still, I wondered if I should inform Captain Jaggery. Had he not just asked me to tell him of anything untoward? Had I not agreed?
Upon careful reflection, I decided to remain silent. If I were to go to the captain with such a tale he would think me a sorry, troublesome child. That was the last thing I desired.
Such thoughts led me to consider my most pleasant talk during tea with him. He had left me in quite a different frame of mind than Zachariah had.
Captain Jaggery and Mr. Zachariah! Such unlike men! And yet, quite suddenly I was struck by the thought that each of them, in his own way, was courting me.
Courting me! I could not help but smile. Well no, not courting in the real sense. But surely courting me for friendship.
What a queer notion! But I must confess, it filled me with smug pleasure. I resolved to stay on the good side of both men. No harm there, I told myself. Quite the contrary. It was the safest course. I would be everybody’s friend, though—need I say?—infinitely more partial to the captain.
With my morning’s adventures so resolved, I—for the first time since my arrival on the Seahawk—felt good!
But I was hungry. After all, I still had not really eaten for several days. Neither Zachariah’s hardtack nor the captain’s biscuits had been very nourishing. Just the thought made my stomach growl. I decided to return to the cook and request a decent meal.
But before I went, I had one more task to perform. At the moment it seemed trifling enough, though momentous it proved to be. I took up the dirk that had caused me so much anxiety and—since it had no sheath—wrapped it in one of my own handkerchiefs and placed it again in my pocket, determined to fling all into the ocean.
At that fateful moment, however, I paused, recollecting that both Captain Jaggery and Zachariah had urged me to keep the weapon. What if each chanced to ask of it again?
Here I reminded myself that a few moments before—when I’d been frightened—I had found a need of it, or at least I thought I’d needed it to defend myself.
Finally, with the notion of pleasing both captain and cook, I returned the knife—still wrapped in my handkerchief—to its hiding place under my mattress. As far as I was c
oncerned, it could stay there and be forgotten.
Alas, such would not be the case.
HAVING MADE UP MY MIND TO FORGET WHAT HAD HAPPENED, I PASSED THE NEXT seven days in comparative tranquility. By the end of the week I grew so firm in my footing that I hardly noticed the pitch and roll of the ship, nor minded the ever-present damp.
During this same time the weather held. No storms came our way. Though days were not always bright and clear, we ran before a steady wind that graced our helm and ruffled our hair. With every sail bent we were making good progress, or so Captain Jaggery assured me. In my ignorance I even stood above the figurehead in hopes of seeing land. Naturally, all I saw was an empty, unchanging, and boundless sea. One day seemed much like another:
At the end of the morning watch, sometime toward six bells, I would wake. Now I had been taught that at the start of each day I should present myself as a proper young gentlewoman to my parents, or, when at school, to the headmistress. On shipboard it was only natural that the captain should be the one I wished to please. But it must be said that preparing to appear on deck was not easy. My day began with a search—usually successful—for fleas. Afterward came a brushing of my hair for a full twenty minutes (I did the same at night). Finally, I parted it carefully, wanting it smoothly drawn—anything to keep it from its natural and to me obnoxious wildness.
Then I dressed. Unfortunately my starched clothing had gone everlastingly limp and became increasingly soiled. Hardly a button remained in place. Though I tried not to touch anything, those white gloves of mine had turned the color of slate.
So dirty did I become that I resolved that one of my four dresses would be saved—neat and clean—for my disembarkation in Providence. It was a great comfort to me to know I would not shame my family.
If I wanted to wash things—and I did try—I had to do it myself, something I’d never been required to do before. Moreover, to do washing on ship meant hauling a bucket of seawater up to the deck. Fortunately, the captain was willing to order the men to lift water for me on demand.
