The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle: Chapters 3–6

Having composed my mind I sat up with some energy only to strike my head upon the low ceiling. Chastened, I got myself to the cabin floor.

For a fleeting but horrible second I had the notion that I was alone on board. Then I realized that I was being watched with crude curiosity.

Standing on the quarterdeck was a red-faced man whose slight stoop and powerful broad shoulders conspired to give the impression of perpetual suspicion, an effect heightened by dark, deep-set eyes partially obscured by craggy eyebrows.

But the man, seemingly indifferent to my words, only turned and with a slab of a hand reached for a bell set up at the head of the quarterdeck in a kind of gallows. He pulled the clapper three times.

Even as I tried to keep myself from sinking to the deck, nine men suddenly appeared in the ship’s waist, from above as well as below, fore as well as aft.

From his fine coat, from his tall beaver hat, from his glossy black boots, from his clean, chiseled countenance, from the dignified way he carried himself, I knew at once—without having to be told—that this must be Captain Jaggery.

One by one the sailors shuffled forward a step, lifted their heads, doffed their caps, and spoke their names, but slumped into broken postures again once they returned to the line.

He merely studied the men with a look of contempt, an attitude that, because I shared it, made me respect him even more.

He studied the line of sailors, smiled sardonically, and said, “But where, then, is Mr. Cranick?”

The captain continued to look steadily at the men, then slowly, but with great deliberation, he turned his back upon them.

Grateful for the momentary reprieve, I stood where I was, fighting the nausea I felt, gathering all my womanly arts so as to present myself in the most agreeable fashion, making sure my hair, my best asset, fell just so—despite the breeze—to my lower back.

“Ah,” he said with unimpeachable refinement, “Miss Doyle, our young lady passenger."

“Please, sir," I whispered in my most modest, ladylike way, “my father would not want me here on this ship and in this company. I must go back to Liverpool. To Miss Weed."

Captain Jaggery smiled brilliantly, then laughed—a beguiling, manly laugh.

In the meanwhile, I promise that when you’re well—for I can see by your pallor that you have a touch of seasickness—I’ll have you in my quarters for tea.

I did manage to crawl into the bed. And once there I must have fallen into some kind of swoon. In any case I remained there, too ill, too weak to do anything, certain I’d never rise again.

I would open my eyes, and there was Zachariah’s ancient black face close by, murmuring soft, comforting sounds, spooning warm gruel or tea into my mouth—I didn’t know which—as if I were some baby.

Even my dreams were haunted by ghastly visions. So real were they that once I started up and found Zachariah’s dirk in my hand. I must have plucked it from beneath my mattress and was brandishing it against some imagined evil....I heard a sound.

My nose wrinkled. “What is it?”
“Hardtack. Sailor's bread. Come, Miss Doyle, sit.”

“One year ago, Miss Doyle, on this same ship, Seahawk, one poor sailor came under the captain’s ire, the captain’s judgment, the captain’s rage.”

“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...."

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.

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.

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.

The walls were richly paneled and hung with miniatures and pretty pastoral prints of dear England.

A desk with neatly stacked charts and nautical instruments in velvet boxes faced it on the starboard wall.

“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.”

“I gather,” he continued, “that Mr. Zachariah has already befriended you.”
I drew myself up. “He’s been a bit presumptuous.”

“Oh, sir,” I exclaimed enthusiastically, “I’m sure I’ll not be stinting in my praise. You seem so—”
“Yes?”
“You remind me of my father,” I said, blushing yet again.

I am a punctilious man, Miss Doyle.

“A round robin,” he said. “The men sign it this way so no name shall appear on top, or bottom. How typical of them not to accept responsibility for their own wayward actions. It’s a kind of pact.”

Never mind that my dress—having been worn for four days—was creased and misshapen, my white gloves a sodden gray. Never mind that my fine hair must have been hanging like a horse’s tail, in almost complete disarray.

From the forecastle deck we crossed to the quarterdeck and then to the helm. Foley, a lean, bearded man, was at the wheel. Mr. Keetch, as unsmiling as ever, stood by his side.

Even as they ascended Mr. Keetch began to sing out a litany of commands—“Man topgallant mast ropes! Haul taut! Sway and unfid!”—that had men hauling on running lines and tackle until the desired sails were shifted and set.

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.

“More cargo,” he explained laconically. “Rats and roaches too. And a foul bilge. That’s where the brig is.”

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.

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.