This bad time passed. At length I was able to sleep in peace. How long I slept I am not sure. But then at last I truly awoke.
Chapter Four
When I awakened that time—to the sound of four bells—I had no idea whether I had slept one day or seven. I knew only that I was hungry. I sensed my own filthiness too. And I had an almost desperate desire for fresh air.
I lowered myself to the cabin floor and was pleased to find that my legs would—after a fashion—hold. But then, as I moved toward the door, my foot stepped on something. I almost fell. Bending down to investigate I realized I’d stepped on the dirk. When I recalled the circumstances as to why I’d thrown it, I resolved to return the dagger immediately.
So it was with dirk in hand that I left my cabin and went up the ladder and onto the deck, fully expecting to see the same brilliant scene of sky, sails, and sea that had greeted me when I had ventured on deck the first time. It was not to be so. Though the Seahawk heaved and rolled, creaked and groaned, her sails hung limply. The sky was different too; low, with a heavy dampness that instantly wet my face, though I felt nothing so distinct as rain. As for the sea, it was almost the same color as the sky, a menacing claylike gray. And yet, it was in constant motion, its surface heaving rhythmically like the chest of some vast, discomforted sleeper.
I looked about. A few of the sailors were working ropes or scouring decks with heavy holystones. Their sullen silence, their dirty clothing, was hardly a reassuring sight. Then I realized that one of them—Dillingham was his name—was staring right at me. He was a bearded, bald, and barrel-chested man, with great knuckled fists and a perpetually sulky frown. Suddenly, I saw that it was not so much me he was looking at but the blade I held in my hand.
Turning abruptly, I tried to hide the dirk in the folds of my skirt. When I stole a glance over my shoulder I noted that Dillingham had gone off. All the same the incident reminded me I had come on deck to give the knife back to Zachariah.
Concerned mostly that the other sailors not see what I held, I hastily made my way to the galley. Fortunately, Zachariah was there. Standing at the bulkhead, I mum bled, “Good morning.”
The old man turned from his pots. “Ah! Miss Doyle,” he cried. “I am glad to see you. And most pleased too that you’ve found your—what sailors call—sea legs.”
“Mr. Zachariah,” I said, weak and breathless, but holding out the dirk. “Take this back. I don’t want it.”
It was as if he had not heard me. “Would Miss Doyle wish some tea?”
I continued to offer the dirk. “Mr. Zachariah, please. . .”
“Come,” he said, “do as they do in big houses. Enter, drink, and eat. When one recovers one’s legs, there’s still a stomach to contend with. Then, perhaps, I’ll talk with Miss Doyle about my gift.”
I was not sure what to do. It was the smell of food that decided me. “I am very hungry.”
Immediately he reached into a tin chest and brought out what looked like a flat lump of hard dough. “Would Miss Doyle like this?” he asked as if offering a fine delicacy.
My nose wrinkled. “What is it?”
“Hardtack. Sailor’s bread. Come, Miss Doyle, sit.”
As loathsome as the food appeared, hunger dictated. I stepped forward, settled myself on the stool, and took the hardened cake. Meanwhile, I put the dirk in my dress pocket.
As I ate—not an easy task, for the biscuit was rock hard and close to tasteless—he busied himself in getting tea. “How long have I been ill?” I asked.
“On toward four days now.”
After a moment I said, “I wish to thank you for your kindness during that time.”
He turned and beamed. “Zachariah and Miss Doyle—together.”
Fearing he was taking liberties, I changed the subject. “Is it possible,” I asked, “to go where my trunk is? I need to get some fresh clothes as well as my reading.”
“For that,” he said, “you will need to apply to Mr. Hollybrass.” He offered me the tea.
I took the cup and began to sip at it. After a moment, I said, “Mr. Zachariah, when I finish my tea I intend to leave the dirk.”
The old man studied me. “Miss Doyle”—his hand touched his heart—«believe me. There may be a need.”
“What kind of need?” I said, dismayed.
“A ship, Miss Doyle . . . is a nation of its own.”
“Mr. Zachariah . . .”
“The nations of the earth, Miss Doyle, they have kings, and emperors ...”
“And presidents,” I added, loyal American that I was.
“Yes, and presidents. But when a ship is upon the sea, there’s but one who rules. As God is to his people, as king to his nation, as father to his family, so is captain to his crew. Sheriff. Judge and jury. He is all.”
“All?” I said.
“Aye,” he said solemnly, “and hangman too if it comes to that. Now, Miss Doyle, if ever a man was master of his ship, it’s our Captain Jaggery. I saw you upon the deck that first day. Did you not mark his words?”
I drew myself up. “Mr. Zachariah,” I said, “the captain is a fine man.”
“Do you think so?”
“I know so.”
For a moment Zachariah merely gazed at me with a look of curiosity. Then he turned away and busied himself with his pots.
“Mr. Zachariah, why do I need the dirk?”
When he paused in his work, I sensed he was trying to make up his mind. After a moment he turned back to me. “Miss Doyle,” he said, “listen.” Even as he spoke he stole a quick glance out the door, crept forward, and lowered his voice.
“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.”
“Mr. Zachariah, I don’t wish to hear personal—”
“Miss Doyle has asked,” he said, cutting me off, “now she must listen. That poor jack went by the name of Mr. Cranick.”
“Cranick?” I said. “Didn’t the captain ask Mr. Hollybrass about him?”
“Ah, you do listen.”
“What about him?” I asked, already sorry I had pressed for this explanation.
“Mr. Cranick did not tie a knot to Captain Jaggery’s particular pleasure. The captain punished Mr. Cranick. Punished him hard.”
“I’m sure this . . . Mr. Cranick deserved it.”
Zachariah cocked his head to one side. “Miss Doyle, do you believe in justice?”
“I am an American, Mr. Zachariah.”
“Ah! Justice for all?”
“For those who deserve it.”
“Captain Jaggery said Mr. Cranick’s laboring arm was his by rights. Miss Doyle, Mr. Cranick has but one arm now. He was that much beaten by Captain Jaggery, who, as he said himself, took the arm. I was first surgeon, then carpenter to Mr. Cranick.”
Appalled, I jumped off the stool. “I don’t believe you!” I exclaimed. “Justice is poorly served when you speak ill of your betters.” It was a phrase I had heard my father use many times.