Indeed, the one unique aspect of this ship was a carved figurehead of a pale white seahawk beneath the bowsprit. Its wings were thrust back against the bow; its head extended forward, beak wide-open, red tongue protruding as if screaming. In the shadowy light that twisted and distorted its features I was struck by the notion that this figure looked more like an angry, avenging angel than a docile bird.
The dockside was deserted and growing darker. I felt like taking myself up the gangplank in search of Mr. Grummage. But, alas, my good manners prevailed. I remained where I was, standing in a dreamlike state, thinking I know not what.
But gradually—like a telescope being focused—I began to realize I was watching something clinging to one of the mooring ropes on the ship’s stern. It reminded me of a picture I once had seen of a sloth, an animal that hangs upside down upon jungle vines. But this—I gradually perceived—was a man. He appeared to be shimmying himself from the dock up to the Seahawk. Even as I realized what I was seeing, he boarded the ship and was gone.
I had no time to absorb that vision before I heard angry voices. Turning, I saw Mr. Grummage appear at the topgallant rail, engaged in an argument with someone I could not see. My gentleman repeatedly looked down at me, and, so I thought, gesticulated in my direction as if I were the subject of a heated discussion.
At last Mr. Grummage came down to the dock. As he drew near I saw that his face was flushed, with an angry eye that alarmed me.
“Is something amiss?” I asked in a whisper.
“Not at all!” he snapped. “All is as planned. You have been expected. The ship’s cargo is loaded. The captain is ready to sail. But . . .” He trailed off, looked back at the ship, then turned again to me. “It’s just that. . . You see, those two families, the ones you would be traveling with, your companions . . . they have not arrived.”
“But they will,” I said, trying to compose myself.
“That’s not entirely certain,” Mr. Grummage allowed. “The second mate informs me that one family sent word that they could not reach Liverpool in time. The other family has a seriously ill child. There is concern that she should not be moved.” Again Mr. Grummage glanced over his shoulder at the Seahawk as if, in some fashion, these events were the ship’s fault.
Turning back to me, he continued. “As it stands, Captain Jaggery will accept no delay of departure. Quite proper. He has his orders.”
“But Mr. Grummage, sir,” I asked in dismay, “what shall I do?”
“Do? Miss Doyle, your father left orders that you were to travel on this ship at this time. I’ve very specific, written orders in that regard. He left no money to arrange otherwise. As for myself,” he said, “I’m off for Scotland tonight on pressing business.”
“But surely,” I cried, frustrated by the way Mr. Grummage was talking as much as by his news, “surely I mustn’t travel alone!”
“Miss Doyle,” he returned, “being upon a ship with the full complement of captain and crew could hardly be construed as traveling alone.”
“But . . . but that would be all men, Mr. Grummage! And . . . I am a girl. It would be wrong!” I cried, in absolute confidence that I was echoing the beliefs of my beloved parents.
Mr. Grummage drew himself up. “Miss Doyle,” he said loftily, “in my world, judgments as to rights and wrongs are left to my Creator, not to children. Now, be so good as to board the Seahawk. At once!”
Chapter Two
With Mr. Grummage leading the way I stepped finally, hesitantly, upon the deck of the Seahawk. A man was waiting for us.
He was a small man—most seafaring men are small—barely taller than I and dressed in a frayed green jacket over a white shirt that was none too clean. His complexion was weathered dark, his chin ill-shaven. His mouth was unsmiling. His fingers fidgeted and his feet shuffled. His darting, unfocused eyes, set deep in a narrow ferretlike face, gave the impression of one who is constantly on watch for threats that might appear from any quarter at any moment.
“Miss Doyle,” Mr. Grummage intoned by way of in troduction, “both Captain Jaggery and the first mate are ashore. May I present the second mate, Mr. Keetch.”
“Miss Doyle,” this Mr. Keetch said to me, speaking in an unnecessarily loud voice, “since Captain Jaggery isn’t aboard I’ve no choice but to stand in his place. But it’s my strong opinion, miss, that you should take another ship for your passage to America.”
“And I,” Mr. Grummage cut in before I could respond, “can allow of no such thing!”
This was hardly the welcome I had expected.
“But Mr. Grummage,” I said, “I’m sure my father would not want me to be traveling without—”
Mr. Grummage silenced my objections with an up raised hand. “Miss Doyle,” he said, “my orders were clear and allow for no other construction. I met you. I brought you here. I had you placed under the protection of this man, who, in the momentary absence of Captain Jaggery and the first mate, fulfilled his obligation by signing a receipt for you.”
To prove his point Mr. Grummage waved a piece of paper at me. I might have been a bale of cotton.
“Therefore, Miss Doyle,” he rushed on, “nothing remains save to wish you a most pleasant voyage to America.”
Putting action to words he tipped his hat, and before I could utter a syllable he strode down the gangplank toward the shore.
“But Mr. Grummage!” I called desperately.
Whether Mr. Grummage heard me, or chose not to hear me, he continued to stride along the dock without so much as a backward glance. I was never to see him again.
A slight shuffling sound made me turn about. Beneath a lantern on the forecastle deck I saw a few wretched sailors hunched in apelike postures pounding oakum between the decking planks. Without doubt they had heard everything. Now they threw hostile glances over their shoulders in my direction.
I felt a touch at my elbow. Starting, I turned again and saw Mr. Keetch. He seemed more nervous than ever.
“Begging your pardon, Miss Doyle,” he said in his awkward way, “there’s nothing to be done now, is there? I’d best show you your cabin.”
At that point I remembered my trunk of clothing, as if that collection of outward fashion—still ashore—had more claim to me than the ship. And since it was there, so should I be. “My trunk ...” I murmured, making a half turn toward the dock.
“Not to worry, miss. We’ll fetch it for you,” Mr. Keetch said, cutting off my last excuse for retreat. Indeed, he held out a lantern, indicating an entryway in the wall of the quarterdeck that appeared to lead below.
What could I do? All my life I had been trained to obey, educated to accept. I could hardly change in a moment. “Please lead me,” I mumbled, as near to fainting as one could be without actually succumbing.
“Very good, miss,” he said, leading me across the deck and down a short flight of steps.
I found myself in a narrow, dark passageway with a low ceiling. The steerage, as this area is called, was hardly more than six feet wide and perhaps thirty feet in length. In the dimness I could make out a door on each side, one door at the far end. Like a massive tree rising right out of the floor and up through the ceiling was the mainmast. There was also a small table attached to the center of the flooring. No chairs.