Brig Seahawk, to sail on September the ninth, by the
morning’s tide. Captain Roderick Fisk, master.
For the next few days I made such a show of concentrating hard on my books that I was finally permitted to have my evening meals with the family downstairs.
On September the eighth—surely one of the longest days I can remember—I informed everyone at table that I wished to be excused to continue the reading that was so occupying me.
“What are you studying, my dear?” my mother asked nervously.
“Dr. Dillard’s essay on patience, Mama.”
“How very gratifying,” she said.
Later that evening I was informed that my father wished me to come to his study. I went down and knocked on his door.
“Enter!” he called.
He was sitting in his reading chair, an open book before him. He looked up, closed his book, and drew me forward with a gentle gesture of his hand.
“You are making progress, Charlotte,” he said. “I wish to commend you. I do.”
“Thank you, Papa.”
“You are young, Charlotte,” he told me. “The young are capable of absorbing many shocks and still maintaining an . . . “ He searched for the proper words.
“An orderly life?” I offered.
He smiled the first smile I had seen in a long while. “Yes, exactly, Charlotte. Orderly. You give me much hope. You and I now understand each other perfectly. Good night, my dear girl. Good night.” He took up his book again.
“Good night, Papa.”
I bathed. I let Bridget supervise my going to bed.
By two o’clock in the morning all was perfectly still. I slipped out of bed and from the bottom drawer of my bureau took from beneath my paper-layered frocks the sailor’s clothes that Zachariah had made me. I changed into them.
I opened the window to my room. It was child’s play for me to climb down the trellis. I almost laughed! Within half an hour I was on the India docks, standing before the Seahawk, dark except for a lantern fore and aft. A new mainmast had been stepped.
As I watched from the shadow of some bales of goods, I saw someone on watch, pacing the quarterdeck. At one point he proceeded to the bell and rang out the time, four bells. Each clang sent shivers up and down my spine.
Boldly now, I walked up the gangplank.
“Who is that?” came a challenge.
I said nothing.
“Who is that?” came the demand again. Now I was certain of the voice.
“Zachariah?” I called, my voice choked.
“Charlotte!”
“I’ve decided to come home.”
By morning’s tide—and a southwest wind—the Seahawk sailed away. As it did I was clinging to the top gallant spar below a billowing royal yard. Something Zachariah told me filled my mind and excited my heart: “A sailor,” he said, “chooses the wind that takes the ship from safe port . . . but winds have a mind of their own.”
APPENDIX
Ship’s Time
On sailing ships crews were divided into teams so as to share all work. These teams were called watches. On the Seahawk, Mr. Hollybrass had the command of one watch, Mr. Keetch—then Mr. Johnson, as second mate—took charge of the second.
The day was broken up into time periods—also called watches—as follows:
A typical day would have a sailor working alternate watches, a system called “watch and watch,” in this fashion:
This meant that on the following day the sailor’s schedule would be:
And so on . . .
This pattern of watch and watch meant that no sailor ever had more than four hours sleep at a time. Of course if there was need, such as a general resetting or overhaul of the sails—or a storm—all hands could be called, and they would report even if it was not their watch.
To keep track of time, the mates rang the ship’s bell every half hour. They did it this way:
For example, if two bells rang out during the first dog watch, it would be, by land reckoning, 5:oo pm.
About the Author
Avi was born in 1987 into a family of writers extending as far back as the nineteenth century. He was raised in New York City. His twin sister, now also a writer, gave him the name Avi because she was either unable or unwilling to use the name his parents had given him.
When Avi was young, his teachers often told him that his writing didn’t make much sense. He later found out he had symptoms of dyslexia, a frustrating problem that makes writing difficult. But Avi didn’t give up.
He began his career by writing plays while working as a librarian. When his first child was born, he started to write for young people. His first book, Things That Sometimes Happen: Very Short Stories for Little Listeners, was published in 1970. Since then, he has authored seventy books, which span nearly every genre and have received almost every major prize, including the 2c>o3 Newbery Medal for Crispin: The Cross of Lead, two Newbery Honors, two Boston Globe-Horn Book Awards, and the Scott O’Dell Award for Historical Fiction. Avi has also won many children’s choice awards, and he frequently travels to schools around the country to talk to his readers. Additionally, he is the cofounder of ART, the Authors Readers Theatre, a group of writers who per form theatrical adaptations of their books throughout the country.
Avi lives in Denver, Colorado. Visit him online at www.avi-writer.com.
Q&A with Avi
Q: Why did you become a writer? Was there anything else you had dreamed of becoming?