The broad-shouldered man had been joined by an other. Just to see him made my heart leap joyously with recognition and relief. 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. And he—I saw it in a glance—was a gentleman, the kind of man I was used to. A man to be trusted. In short, a man to whom I could talk and upon whom I could rely.
But before I composed myself to approach, Captain Jaggery turned to the man who had rung the bell and I heard him say, “Mr. Hollybrass, we are short one.”
Mr. Hollybrass—I was soon to discover that he was the first mate—looked scornfully at the assembled men below. Then he said, “The second mate did the best he could, sir. No one else could be got to sign articles. Not for anything.”
The captain frowned. Then he said, “The others will have to take up the slack. I’ll not have any less. Have the men give their names.”
Hollybrass nodded curtly, then took a step forward and addressed the assembled crew. “Give your names,” he barked.
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.
“Dillingham.”
“Grimes.”
“Morgan.”
“Barlow.”
“Foley.”
“Ewing.”
“Fisk.”
“Johnson.”
“Zachariah.”
When they had done, Hollybrass said, “Your crew, Captain Jaggery.”
At first the captain said nothing. He merely studied the men with a look of contempt, an attitude that, because I shared it, made me respect him even more. “Who is the second mate?” I heard him ask.
“Mr. Keetch, sir. He’s at the wheel.”
“Ah, yes,” the captain returned, “Mr. Keetch. I might have guessed.” He studied the line of sailors, smiled sardonically, and said, “But where, then, is Mr. Cranick?”
“Sir?” Hollybrass said, clearly puzzled.
“Cranick.”
“I don’t know the name, sir.”
“Now there’s an unlooked-for blessing,” the captain said, his manners nonetheless courtly. All this was said loudly enough for the crew—and me—to hear.
Captain Jaggery now took a step forward. “Well, then,” he said in a clear, firm voice, “it’s a pleasure to see you all again. I take it kindly that you’ve signed on with me. Indeed, I suspect we know each other well enough so each understands what’s due the other. That makes it easy.”
His confident tone was tonic to me. I felt myself gain strength.
“I have no desire to speak to any of you again,” the captain continued. “Mr. Hollybrass here, as first mate, shall be my voice. So too, Mr. Keetch as second mate. Separation makes for an honest crew. An honest crew makes a fair voyage. A fair voyage brings a profit, and profit, my good gentlemen, doth turn the world.
“But,” Jaggery continued, his voice rising with the wind, “I give warning.” He leaned forward over the rail much as I’d seen teachers lean toward unruly students. “If you give me less—one finger less—than the particulars of the articles you have signed, I shall take my due. Make no mistake, I will. You know I mean what I say, don’t you? No, we shall have no democracy here. No parliaments. No congressmen. There’s but one master on this ship, and that is me.” So saying he turned to his first mate. “Mr. Hollybrass.”
“Sir?”
“An extra issue of rum as a gesture of good will toward a pleasant, quick passage. Let it be understood that I know the old saying: no ship sails the same sea twice.”
“Very good, sir.”
“You may dismiss them,” the captain said.
“Dismissed,” echoed the first mate.
For a moment no one moved. The captain continued to look steadily at the men, then slowly, but with great deliberation, he turned his back upon them.
“Dismissed,” Hollybrass said again.
After the crew had gone he murmured some words to Captain Jaggery, the two shook hands, and the first mate went below. Now the captain was alone on the quarter deck. Glancing upward at the sails from time to time, he began to pace back and forth in almost leisurely fashion, hands clasped behind his back, a study in deep thought.
I, meanwhile, still clung to the rail, braced against the heaving ship. But I had new hope. I had not been abandoned. My perception of Captain Jaggery made me certain that my world was regained.
Summoning such strength and courage as was left me, I mounted the steps to the quarterdeck. When I reached the top the captain was moving away from me. 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.
At last he turned. For a moment his severe eyes rested on me and then . . . he smiled. It was such a kind, good-natured smile that my heart nearly melted. I felt I would—I think I did—shed tears of gratitude.
“Ah,” he said with unimpeachable refinement, “Miss Doyle, our young lady passenger.” He lifted his tall hat in formal salutation. “Captain Andrew Jaggery at your service.” He bowed.
I took a wobbly step in his direction, and despite my weakness tried to curtsy.
“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. “Return to Liverpool, Miss Doyle?” he said. “Out of the question. Time, as they say, is money. And nowhere is this truer than on board a ship. We are well off and we shall continue on. God willing, we shall touch no land but welcome ports.
“I am sorry you have such rude company. I know you are used to better. It could not be helped. But in a month, no more than two, we shall have you safe in Providence, no worse off but for a little salt in that pretty hair of yours. 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. We shall be friends, you and I.”
“Sir, I shouldn’t be here.”
“Miss Doyle, you have my word on it. No harm shall come your way. Besides, it’s said a pretty child—a pretty woman—keeps the crew in a civilized state, and this crew can do with some of that.”
“I feel so ill, sir,” I said.
“That’s only to be expected, Miss Doyle. In a few days it will pass. Now, you will excuse me. Duty calls.”
Turning, he made his way to the stern where the second mate stood at the wheel.
Checked by his courteous but complete dismissal of my request, and feeling even weaker than before, I somehow made my way back to my cabin.
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.
Now and again I would feel a rough-skinned but gentle hand beneath my head. 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. Indeed, I was a baby.
And from time to time the face of Captain Jaggery loomed large too, a welcome and tender gift of sympathy. Indeed, I believed it was the sight of him more than anything else that sustained me. For I suffered real and terrible stomach pains, and dreadful headaches. 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. I looked across the cabin. A rat was sitting on my journal, nibbling at its spine. Horrified, I flung the dirk at it, then buried my head in the coverlet, burst into tears, and cried myself to sleep again.