The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle by Avi
The instant I saw it I knew what it was. A round robin.
Clumsily, I pushed the paper away, murmured a “Thank you,” then fled.
I was trembling when I left the forecastle. To make matters worse, the first person I saw was the second mate, Mr. Keetch, who was passing on his way to the galley. I stopped short, with what was, no doubt, a guilty cast to my face. Fortunately, he paid no attention to me, giving me hardly a look beyond his normal, nervous frown. Then he continued on. But though he was gone I simply stood there not knowing what to think or do. Unconsciously I clasped my hand, jabbing my palm with the needle.
Ever faithful to my sense of duty—even in that moment of crisis—I hurried to Ewing and gave the needle to him.
“Here, miss,” he said, scrutinizing my face as he took it, “have you taken ill?”
“No, thank you,” I whispered, attempting to avoid his look. “I am fine.”
I fled hastily back to my cabin and secured the door behind me. Once alone I climbed atop my bed and flung myself down, then gave myself over entirely to the question of what I should do.
You will understand that there was no doubt in my mind regarding what I had seen. There had been a pistol. There had been a round robin. With the warnings given to me by Captain Jaggery—and ever-mindful of the possibilities revealed to me by Zachariah—I had little doubt about the meaning of my discoveries. The crew was preparing a rebellion.
Regaining some degree of calmness I thought over who it was that had been in the forecastle. To begin with there was Fisk. He was part of Mr. Keetch’s watch, so it was reasonable to assume that the other members of his watch were with him.
There were, I knew, four men in that watch: Ewing, Morgan, Foley, and of course Fisk himself.
But as I reviewed these names my feelings of puzzlement grew. What I had observed did not make sense. Then I grasped it. I had seen Fisk. It was he who had opened the forecastle door. And Ewing was on the forecastle deck. But when I stepped inside there had been three hammocks occupied with men. In short, I had seen a total of five men off watch. Assuming the other hammocks indeed held members of the watch, who then was the fifth man? Could it have been Mr. Keetch himself? No. I had seen him just outside the forecastle when I emerged. Nor could it have been someone who was on duty. The captain would never have tolerated that. Who then was that fifth man?
I began to wonder if I’d not been mistaken about the number, reminding myself that a hammock full of clothing would have looked much the same as one occupied by a man.
But the more I recollected what I’d seen—the weight of the hammocks, the dangling arms and legs—the more convinced I grew that I’d indeed seen four men.
Suddenly—like the crack of a wind-whipped sail—I recalled my dim vision when waiting to board the Seahawk the night of my arrival: of a man hauling himself up ropes to the ship. Of course! A stowaway!
But where could such a man have hidden himself?
No sooner did I ask myself that than I remembered the face which had so frightened me in the top cargo when I’d gone for my clothing. It had been a face that I’d not recognized. Indeed, it was just that lack of recognition that convinced me I’d imagined it. In fact—I now realized—I must have seen the stowaway! No wonder I did not recognize him! He had been hiding in the hold, which explained Barlow’s dire words about the place, as well as the grinning carving. The man sought to scare me from the place!
But having arrived at that conclusion I asked myself this: what was I to do with my discovery? To ask the qustion was to have the answer: Captain Jaggery. It was to him I owed my allegiance—by custom—by habit—by law. To him I must speak. And the truth was, in addition to everything else, I was now consumed by guilt—and terror—that I had not told him before of the incident in the top cargo. So it was that by the time I had come full course in my thinking, I knew I mustn’t wait a moment longer. I needed to get to Captain Jaggery.
Recollecting the time—three bells of the second dog watch—I knew that the captain would most likely be found by the helm.
Nervously, I emerged from my cabin and went onto the deck in search of him. The first man I saw was Morgan, leaning against the starboard rail. He was a gangly, long-limbed, muscular fellow, with a fierce mustache and long hair. As he was one of Mr. Keetch’s watch—not currently on duty—he should have been among those in a forecastle hammock when I’d been there. I say he should have been because I had not seen his face. His presence was only a surmise.
But there he was, on deck. Brought to a dead stop I gazed dumbly at him; he in return gazed right at me. Surely, I thought, he was there to observe me.
For that long moment we stood looking at one another. I saw no emotion on his face, but what he did next left me with little doubt as to his real intentions. He lifted a hand, extended a stilettolike forefinger, and drew it across his own neck as if cutting it.
A spasm of horror shot through me. He was—in the crudest way—warning me about what might happen to me if I took my discovery to the captain.
For a moment more I remained rooted to the spot. Then I turned to lean upon the portside topgallant rail and stared out over the ocean, trying to recover my breath.
When I had sufficiently steadied my nerves I turned back cautiously. Morgan was gone. But he had achieved his purpose. I was twice as frightened as I’d been when first I stepped upon the Seahawk.
Anxiously, I glanced about to see if I was being watched by anyone else. Sure enough, now it was Foley whom I spied atop the forecastle. He was busily splicing a rope. At least that’s what he seemed to be doing. The instant I saw him, he looked up and pinioned me with a gaze of blatant scrutiny. Then, quickly, he shifted his eyes away. He too was spying on me.
Completely unnerved, I retreated to my cabin and bolted the door. The warnings had an effect quite opposite to what was doubtless intended. More terrified than ever, I now felt that the only person who could help me was Captain Jaggery. But so fearful was I of going on deck in search of him, I decided to wait in his cabin till he returned, certain that the crew would not dare to pursue me there.
Cautiously I pulled the door open again, poked my head out, and when I saw—to my relief—no one was nearby, I rushed to the captain’s door and out of a habit of politeness, knocked.
To my indescribable relief I heard, “Come in.”
I flung the door open. Captain Jaggery was looking over some charts. Mr. Hollybrass was at his side.
The captain turned about. “Miss Doyle,” he said politely. “Is there something I can do for you?”
“Please, sir”—I was finding it difficult to breathe—“I should like a private word.”
He looked at me quizzically. I had not come to him in agitation before. “Is it important?”
“I think so, sir …”
“Perhaps it can wait until …” No doubt it was the distraught expression on my face; he changed his mind. “Come in and shut the door,” he said, his manner becoming alert.
Mr. Hollybrass made a move to go. The captain reached out to restrain him. “Do you have any objections to Mr. Hollybrass being here?” he asked.
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Very well. He shall stay. There’s no one I trust more. Now then, Miss Doyle, step forward and say what’s troubling you.”
I nodded, but could only gulp like a fish out of water.
“Miss Doyle, if you have something of importance to tell me, speak it.”
I lifted my eyes. The captain was studying me with great intensity. In a flash I recollected a time when my much-loved brother broke a rare vase, and I, out of a high sense of duty, told on him despite what I knew would be my father’s certain fury.
“I was fetching a needle for Mr. Ewing,” I got out.
“A needle,” he returned, somewhat deflated. Then he asked, “Where did you find it?”
“In the forecastle.”
“The forecastle,” he echoed, trying to prime my tongue. “Is it your habit to frequ
“Never before, sir.”
“What happened when you went there?”
“I saw … I saw a pistol.”
“Did you!”
I nodded.
“Where exactly?”
I glanced around. Mr. Hollybrass’s normally red face had gone to the pallor of wet salt, whereas the captain was suddenly flushed with excitement.
“Must I say, sir?”
“Of course you must, Miss Doyle. Where did you see the pistol?”
“In … Mr. Ewing’s … chest, sir.”
“Mr. Ewing’s chest,” the captain repeated, exchanging a glance with the first mate as if to affirm something. Then the captain turned back to me. “Anything else?”
I bit my lip.
“There is more, isn’t there?” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Out with it!”
“I saw a …” I could not speak.
“A what Miss Doyle?”
“A … round robin.”
Now it was the captain who gasped. “A round robin!” he exclaimed. “Are you quite sure?”
“Just as you showed me, sir. I’m certain of it.”
“Describe it.”
I did.
“And there were names written in, were there?”
“And marks. Yes, sir.”
“How many?”
“I’m not certain. Perhaps five. Six.”
“Six!” the captain shouted with a darting glance at Mr. Hollybrass. “A wonder it’s not nine! Could you see whose names they were?”
“No, sir.”
“I’m not certain I believe you,” he snapped.
“It’s true!” I cried and to prove my honesty I hurriedly gave him an account of my experiences in the top cargo as well as my conclusion that the ship carried a stowaway. By the time I was done he was seething.
“Why the devil did you not tell me before?” he demanded.
“I didn’t trust my own senses, sir.”
“After all I have done for … !” He failed to finish the sentence. Instead, he growled, “So be it,” and said no more before turning from me and pacing away, leaving both Mr. Hollybrass and me to watch.
“Mr. Hollybrass,” he said finally.
“Sir …”
“Call all hands.”
“Sir, what do you intend to do?”
“I intend to crush this mutiny before it starts.”
CAPTAIN JAGGERY STRODE ACROSS THE ROOM AND FROM THE WALL REMOVED THE PORTRAIT OF HIS daughter. Affixed to its back was a key. With this he unlocked the gun safe, and in a moment he and Mr. Hollybrass were by the door, ready. The captain held two muskets and had two pistols tucked into his belt. Mr. Hollybrass was similarly armed.
Terrified by the response my words had caused, I simply stood where I’d been. The captain would have none of that.
“Miss Doyle, you are to come with us.”
“But … !”
“Do as I tell you!” he shouted. “There’s no time for delay!” He flung one of his muskets to Mr. Hollybrass who miraculously caught it, then grabbed me by an arm and pulled me after him.
We ran out along the steerage into the waist of the ship, then quickly mounted to the quarterdeck. Only then did the captain let me go. He now grasped the bell clapper and began to pull wildly, as though announcing a fire, while shouting, “All hands! All hands!”
That done, he held his hand out to Mr. Hollybrass, who returned the extra musket to him.
I looked about not knowing what to expect, save that I truly feared for my life.
Then I realized that the ship appeared to be completely unmanned. Not a sailor was to be seen anywhere, aloft or on deck. The sails hung like dead cloth, the wheel was abandoned, the rigging rattled with eerie irrelevance. The Seahawk was adrift.
The first person to appear below us was Mr. Keetch. Within seconds of the bell sounding he came bolting from below, took one look at the captain and Mr. Hollybrass armed above him and stopped short, then turned as if expecting to see others. He was alone.
“Mr. Keetch!” the captain cried out to him. “Where do you stand?”
The second mate turned back to the captain, a look of panicky confusion upon his face. But before he could respond or act on the captain’s question the rest of the crew burst from beneath the forecastle deck with wild, blood-curdling yells.
The crew’s first appearance was fierce enough, though almost grotesquely comical, the nine of them looking like so many beggars. When I’d seen them on the day we went to sea they seemed unkempt. Now they looked destitute, their clothing torn and dirty, their faces unshaved, their expressions contorted with fear and fury. Of the nine only Zachariah was not armed. The rest were. Some carried pistols. I recall two having swords. Dillingham had an ancient cutlass in hand, Barlow a knife.
Hardly had they flown out upon the deck than they perceived the captain standing on the quarterdeck, one musket pointing directly at them, the other leaning against the rail within easy reach. They stopped frozen.
If they had rushed forward, they might have overwhelmed the three of us. But it was now Captain Jaggery—and the muskets—that held them in check.
With a start I realized there was a tenth man standing below us. He was muscular and stocky, with a red kerchief tied around his neck and a sword in his hand. As I looked at him in astonishment I saw that he had but one arm.
I recalled Zachariah’s tale of the sailor the captain had so severely punished—the man whose arm was so beaten it had to be amputated. Standing before us was Cranick himself! It was his face I had seen in the top cargo! The stowaway!
I gasped.
Captain Jaggery stepped swiftly to the rail and spoke.
“Ah, it is Mr. Cranick!” he said boldly, holding his musket aimed directly at the man’s burly chest. “I wondered where you’d gone. Not to hell as I’d hoped—but here. May I,” he went on with heavy sarcasm, “be the last to welcome you aboard the Seahawk.”
The man took a shuffled step forward. He was clearly the crew’s leader. “Mr. Jaggery,” he began—pointedly declining to say “Captain”—“I said we would be revenged upon you, did I not?”
“I heard your usual brag, Mr. Cranick, if that’s what you mean,” the captain replied, “but I paid no more mind to it then than I do now.”
At that Cranick lifted his one hand and, still managing to hold the sword, savagely pulled a paper from where it had been tucked into his trousers. He held the paper up.
“Mr. Jaggery,” he called, his voice ragged, “we’ve got a round robin here, which declares you unfit to be captain of the Seahawk.”
There were murmurs of agreement from behind him.
“And what do you intend to do with it, Mr. Cranick?” the captain retorted. “I should think even you, in your mongrel ignorance, would know the days of piracy are long gone. Or do you have that much desire to bring back the practice of hanging in chains, of letting men rot so that crows might peck upon their putrid eyes?”
“No piracy for us, Mr. Jaggery,” Cranick replied with a vigorous shake of his head. “Only justice. We could not get it on land. We shall have it at sea.”
“Justice, say you! Under whose authority?” the captain demanded.
“All of us! Our authority!” Cranick cried and made a half turn to the men behind him. There were murmurs and nods of approval.
“And what kind of justice do you offer?” the captain asked. “Nothing precisely legal, I presume.”
“We demand you stand before us in a trial of your peers,” Cranick answered.
“Trial! Peers!” the captain cried mockingly. “I see nothing but ruffians and villains, the scum of the sea!”
“Then we proclaim ourselves your peers,” Cranick cried. With that he flung down the paper and took another step forward. “You can have anyone you want defend you,” he persisted. “Have that girl, if you like. She seems to be your eyes and ears. Let her be your mouth too.”
I screamed. Mr. Hollybrass moaned. In horror, the crew retreated further. Captain Jaggery hastily dropped his spent musket, picked up the second, and aimed it into their midst.
“Who shall be next!” he screamed at them.
To a man, they looked up with burning, terrified eyes.
“Let Cranick lie there!” the captain continued to shout. “Anyone who moves forward shall receive the same!”
The crew began to edge further away.
“Leave your guns and swords,” the captain shouted. “Quickly now! I’ll fire upon the first who doesn’t.”
Pistols, swords, and knives dropped in a clatter.
“Mr. Hollybrass! Collect them!”
The first mate scurried down the steps and, while glancing upward, began to gather the weapons. It was clear he feared the captain more than the crew.
“Their round robin too!” the captain called to him.
Too shocked to speak, I could only watch and feel enormous pain.
Cranick had stopped moving. The only sign of life in him were the small pink bubbles of blood that frothed upon his lips.
It was then that I saw Zachariah slip from the frozen tableau and move toward the fallen man. He held his hands before him, waist high, palms up, as if to prove he carried no weapon. He kept his eyes on the captain.
“Let him be, Mr. Zachariah,” the captain barked. “He’s a stowaway. He has no claim to any care.”
The old man paused. “As a man,” he said in a voice wonderfully calm midst the chaos, “he claims our mercy.”
The captain lifted his musket. “No,” he said firmly.
Zachariah looked at him, then at Cranick. I may have imagined it but I believe he may even have looked at me. In any case he continued on with slow, deliberate steps toward the fallen man.