“She’s very lovely, sir,” I said, reaching for the picture. He drew it back as if unable to part with it even for a moment.
“If I may take the liberty of saying so, Miss Doyle, you and she could be charming sisters. I do miss her.” His eyes lingered on the picture in a most affecting way. Then he placed it carefully back on the wall, never for a moment taking his eyes from the child’s face. He turned about. “Are you comfortable in your cabin?” he asked.
“Oh, yes, sir,” I assured him.
“A bit cramped no doubt.”
“Only a little.”
“Miss Doyle, I offer you the freedom of the ship. As for your meals, you may join me whenever you choose. I don’t think you will find the crew to your liking, of course, but there will be no harm in being friendly to them. The truth is, you will do them a world of good.”
“It’s kind of you to say, sir,” I replied, appreciating the compliment. He was watching me with an earnestness I found irresistible.
“Talk to them, Miss Doyle,” he urged. “Show them a little softness. Read to them from your moral books. Preach the gospel if you have a mind. Listen to their tales. I promise, they will fill your pretty head with the most fantastical notions.”
“I’m sure, sir,” I said, thinking back to all Zachariah had told me. The captain’s behavior at tea was proof enough—for me—of his true goodness.
“I gather,” he continued, “that Mr. Zachariah has already befriended you.”
I drew myself up. “He’s been a bit presumptuous.”
“These sailors ...” the captain said lazily. “They have no natural tenderness. They must be instructed.” He studied me a while. “How old are you Miss Doyle?”
“Thirteen, sir.”
“And your father, I understand, is an officer of the company that owns this ship.”
“Yes, sir.”
He smiled. “Then, you see, I have even more reason to make sure your time with us is as comfortable as possible. I shall want a good report from you.”
“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.
“High praise, which I hope to deserve!” he cried with such obvious pleasure that I could not help but be gratified. Then he set down his teacup and leaned forward. “Miss Doyle, forgive my rough tongue, but, since we are to be friends—we are already friends, are we not?”
“I would very much like that, sir.”
“And you said I remind you of your esteemed father.”
“You do, sir.”
“Then may I be frank with you?”
“If you wish, sir,” I returned, flattered anew.
“A ship, Miss Doyle, I will be the first to admit, is not the most wholesome place for a refined young lady like yourself. And a captain has not the easiest of tasks, considering the nature of the crew he must command. They are godless men, I fear. Sailors often are.
“There will be moments,” he continued, “when I will appear harsh to you. Believe me, if I could with kindness encourage the men to achieve their tasks I would do it. Alas, I would gain no respect. They don’t understand kindness. Instead, they see it as weakness. Instead, they demand a strong hand, a touch of the whip, like dumb beasts who require a little bullying. I must do what is best for the ship, the company—which is to say your father—and for them. I am a punctilious man, Miss Doyle. Without order there is chaos. Chaos on shipboard is sailing without a rudder. As for danger ...” He gestured toward the iron safe.
“Do you see that cabinet?”
I nodded.
“A rack of muskets. All loaded. But locked, the key secured. You have my word, Miss Doyle, there are no other guns aboard but mine.”
“I’m very glad, sir,” I replied with a shiver.
“And so you and I, Miss Doyle, shall understand one another, shall we not?”
“Oh, yes, sir. I’m sure, sir.”
“You do my heart good!” he cried. “And you have permission to come to me if you are troubled in any way, Miss Doyle. If something frightens you, or . . . if perhaps, you become . . . how shall I say . . . apprehensive. If you hear rumors among the men . . . This crew, like all crews, grumbles and complains. You go to school?” he asked suddenly.
I nodded.
“And though you love it, and love your mistresses, I’m sure even you and your companions have critical things to say.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“It’s much the same here, Miss Doyle. All friends, but . . . a few grumbles too. In fact I shall ask you to help me. You can be my eyes and ears among the men, Miss Doyle. May I depend on you for that?”
“I’ll try sir.”
“If ever you see something like this . . .” From the Bible he withdrew a paper. On it was a drawing of two circles, one within the other and with what looked like signatures in the space between.
I looked at it blankly.
“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 way ward actions. It’s a kind of pact.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Miss Doyle, those who sign such a thing—a round robin—mean to make dangerous trouble. For me. And you. If ever you see one about the ship you must tell me immediately. It might save our lives.
“Well,” he said briskly, changing his dark tone as he put the paper away, “I believe you and I shall be fast friends.”
“Oh, yes sir,” I assured him.
He drank the last of his tea. “Now, is there anything I can do for you?”
“My trunk was put away, sir. I should like to remove some clothing from it, and my reading.”
“Do you wish the trunk up?” he asked.
“My room is too small, sir. I thought I could go to it.”
“I shall have one of the men lead you there.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What is it?”
I drew the dirk from my pocket. He started.
“Where did you get that?” he asked severely.
“I don’t know if I should say, sir.”
His face had grown stern. “Miss Doyle, was it from one of my crew?”
What flashed through my mind was Zachariah’s kindness that first night I came aboard. In truth, I didn’t care for the black man; he had been most unpleasantly forward. But the severity that had crept into the captain’s eyes as he asked his question gave me pause. I did not wish to bring trouble to Zachariah. No doubt he meant well.
“Miss Doyle,” the Captain said firmly, “you must tell me.”
“Mr. Grummage, sir,” I blurted out.
“I don’t know the man.”
“The gentleman who brought me to the Seahawk, sir. A business associate of my father’s.”
“From Liverpool?”
“I think so, sir. A gentleman.”
“Quite!” he said and, seeming to relax, he reached for the dirk. I gave it to him. He tested its point. “A true blade,” he exclaimed. Then to my surprise—he offered it back.
“If it gives you a sense of security, put it . . . under your mattress.”
“I had it there, sir. I don’t want it.”
“I think you had better.”
“Why?” I asked faintly.
“In hopes you never need it,” he replied. “Now, I insist.”