The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle Read online

  “But they will,” I said, trying to compose myself.

  “That’s not entirely certain,” Mr. Grummage allowed. “The second mate informs me that one family sent word that they could not reach Liverpool in time. The other family has a seriously ill child. There is concern that she should not be moved.” Again Mr. Grummage glanced over his shoulder at the Seahawk as if, in some fashion, these events were the ship’s fault.

  Turning back to me, he continued. “As it stands, Captain Jaggery will accept no delay of departure. Quite proper. He has his orders.”

  “But Mr. Grummage, sir,” I asked in dismay, “what shall I do?”

  “Do? Miss Doyle, your father left orders that you were to travel on this ship at this time. I’ve very specific, written orders in that regard. He left no money to arrange otherwise. As for myself,” he said, “I’m off for Scotland tonight on pressing business.”

  “But surely,” I cried, frustrated by the way Mr. Grummage was talking as much as by his news, “surely I mustn’t travel alone!”

  “Miss Doyle,” he returned, “being upon a ship with the full complement of captain and crew could hardly be construed as traveling alone.”

  “But … but that would be all men, Mr. Grummage! And … I am a girl. It would be wrong!” I cried, in absolute confidence that I was echoing the beliefs of my beloved parents.

  Mr. Grummage drew himself up. “Miss Doyle,” he said loftily, “in my world, judgments as to rights and wrongs are left to my Creator, not to children. Now, be so good as to board the Seahawk. At once!”

  WITH MR. GRUMMAGE LEADING THE WAY I STEPPED FINALLY, hesitantly, upon the deck of the seahawk. A man was waiting for us.

  He was a small man—most seafaring men are small—barely taller than I and dressed in a frayed green jacket over a white shirt that was none too clean. His complexion was weathered dark, his chin ill-shaven. His mouth was unsmiling. His fingers fidgeted and his feet shuffled. His darting, unfocused eyes, set deep in a narrow ferretlike face, gave the impression of one who is constantly on watch for threats that might appear from any quarter at any moment.

  “Miss Doyle,” Mr. Grummage intoned by way of introduction, “both Captain Jaggery and the first mate are ashore. May I present the second mate, Mr. Keetch.”

  “Miss Doyle,” this Mr. Keetch said to me, speaking in an unnecessarily loud voice, “since Captain Jaggery isn’t aboard I’ve no choice but to stand in his place. But it’s my strong opinion, miss, that you should take another ship for your passage to America.”

  “And I,” Mr. Grummage cut in before I could respond, “can allow of no such thing!”

  This was hardly the welcome I had expected.

  “But Mr. Grummage,” I said, “I’m sure my father would not want me to be traveling without—”

  Mr. Grummage silenced my objections with an upraised hand. “Miss Doyle,” he said, “my orders were clear and allow for no other construction. I met you. I brought you here. I had you placed under the protection of this man, who, in the momentary absence of Captain Jaggery and the first mate, fulfilled his obligation by signing a receipt for you.”

  To prove his point Mr. Grummage waved a piece of paper at me. I might have been a bale of cotton.

  “Therefore, Miss Doyle,” he rushed on, “nothing remains save to wish you a most pleasant voyage to America.”

  Putting action to words he tipped his hat, and before I could utter a syllable he strode down the gangplank toward the shore.

  “But Mr. Grummage!” I called desperately.

  Whether Mr. Grummage heard me, or chose not to hear me, he continued to stride along the dock without so much as a backward glance. I was never to see him again.

  A slight shuffling sound made me turn about. Beneath a lantern on the forecastle deck I saw a few wretched sailors hunched in apelike postures pounding oakum between the decking planks. Without doubt they had heard everything. Now they threw hostile glances over their shoulders in my direction.

  I felt a touch at my elbow. Starting, I turned again and saw Mr. Keetch. He seemed more nervous than ever.

  “Begging your pardon, Miss Doyle,” he said in his awkward way, “there’s nothing to be done now, is there? I’d best show you your cabin.”

  At that point I remembered my trunk of clothing, as if that collection of outward fashion—still ashore—had more claim to me than the ship. And since it was there, so should I be. “My trunk …” I murmured, making a half turn toward the dock.

  “Not to worry, miss. We’ll fetch it for you,” Mr. Keetch said, cutting off my last excuse for retreat. Indeed, he held out a lantern, indicating an entryway in the wall of the quarterdeck that appeared to lead below.

  What could I do? All my life I had been trained to obey, educated to accept. I could hardly change in a moment. “Please lead me,” I mumbled, as near to fainting as one could be without actually succumbing.

  “Very good, miss,” he said, leading me across the deck and down a short flight of steps.

  I found myself in a narrow, dark passageway with a low ceiling. The steerage, as this area is called, was hardly more than six feet wide and perhaps thirty feet in length. In the dimness I could make out a door on each side, one door at the far end. Like a massive tree rising right out of the floor and up through the ceiling was the mainmast. There was also a small table attached to the center of the flooring. No chairs.

  The whole area was frightfully confining, offering no sense of comfort that I could see. And a stench of rot permeated the air.

  “This way,” I heard Mr. Keetch say again. He had opened a door on my left. “Your cabin, miss. The one contracted for.” A gesture invited me to enter.

  I gasped. The cabin was but six feet in length. Four feet wide. Four and a half feet high. I, none too tall, could only stoop to see in.

  “Regular passengers pay a whole six pounds for this, miss,” Mr. Keetch advised me, his voice much softer.

  I forced myself to take a step into the cabin. Against the opposite wall I could make out a narrow shelf, partly framed by boarding. When I noticed something that looked like a pillow and a blanket, I realized it was meant to be a bed. Then, when Mr. Keetch held up the light, I saw something crawl over it.

  “What’s that?” I cried.

  “Roach, miss. Every ship has ’em.”

  As for the rest of the furnishings, there were none save a small built-in chest in the bulkhead wall, the door of which dropped down and served as a desktop. There was nothing else. No porthole. No chair. Not so much as a single piece of polite ornamentation. It was ugly, unnatural, and, as I stooped there, impossible.

  In a panic I turned toward Mr. Keetch, wanting to utter some new protest. Alas, he had gone—and had shut the door behind him as though to close the spring on a trap.

  How long I remained hunched in that tiny, dark hole, I am not sure. What aroused me was a knock on the door. Startled, I gasped, “Come in.”

  The door opened. Standing there was a shockingly decrepit old sailor, a tattered tar-covered hat all but crushed in his gnarled and trembling hands. His clothing was poor, his manner cringing.

  “Yes?” I managed to say.

  “Miss, your trunk is here.”

  I looked beyond the door to the trunk’s bulky outline. I saw at once how absurd it would be to even attempt bringing it into my space.

  The sailor understood. “She’s too big, isn’t she?” he said.

  “I think so,” I stammered.

  “Best put it in top cargo,” he offered. “Right below. You can always fetch things there, miss.”

  “Yes, top cargo,” I echoed without knowing what I was saying.

  “Very good, miss,” the man said, and then pulled his forelock as a signal of obedience and compliance to a suggestion that he himself had made. But instead of going he just stood there.

  “Yes?” I asked miserably.

  “Begging your pardon, miss,” the man murmured, his look more hangdog than ever. “Barlow’s the n
ame and though it’s not my business or place to tell you, miss, some of the others here, Jack Tars like myself, have deputized me to say that you shouldn’t be on this ship. Not alone as you are. Not this ship. Not this voyage, miss.”

  “What do you mean?” I said, frightened anew. “Why would they say that?”

  “You’re being here will lead to no good, miss. No good at all. You’d be better off far from the Seahawk.”

  Though all my being agreed with him, my training—that it was wrong for a man of his low station to presume to advise me of anything—rose to the surface. I drew myself up. “Mr. Barlow,” I said stiffly, “it’s my father who has arranged it all.”

  “Very good, miss,” he said, pulling at his forelock again. “I’ve but done my duty, which is what I’m deputized to do.” And before I could speak further he scurried off.

  I wanted to run after him, to cry, “Yes, for God’s sake, get me off!” But, again, there was nothing in me that allowed for such behavior.

  Indeed, I was left with a despairing resolve never to leave the cabin until we reached America. Steadfastly I shut my door. But by doing so I made the space completely dark, and I quickly moved to keep it ajar.

  I was exhausted and desired greatly to sit down. But there was no place to sit! My next thought was to lie down. Trying to put notions of vermin out of mind, I made a move toward my bed but discovered that it was too high for me to reach easily in my skirts. Then suddenly I realized I must relieve myself! But where was I to go? I had not the slightest idea!

  If you will be kind enough to recollect that during my life I had never once—not for a moment—been without the support, the guidance, the protection of my elders, you will accept my words as being without exaggeration when I tell you that at that moment I was certain I had been placed in a coffin. My coffin. It’s hardly to be wondered, then, that I burst into tears of vexation, crying with fear, rage, and humiliation.

  I was still stooped over, crying, when yet another knock came on my cabin door. Attempting to stifle my tears I turned about to see an old black man who, in the light of the little lantern he was holding, looked like the very imp of death in search of souls.

  His clothing, what I could see of it, was even more decrepit than the previous sailor’s, which is to say, mostly rags and tatters. His arms and legs were as thin as marlinspikes. His face, as wrinkled as a crumpled napkin, was flecked with the stubble of white beard. His tightly curled hair was thin. His lips were slack. Half his teeth were missing. When he smiled—for that is what I assumed he was attempting—he offered only a scattering of stumps. But his eyes seemed to glow with curiosity and were all the more menacing because of it.

  “Yes?” I managed to say.

  “At your service, Miss Doyle.” The man spoke with a surprisingly soft, sweet voice. “And wondering if you might not like a bit of tea. I have my own special store, and I’m prepared to offer some.”

  It was the last thing I expected to hear. “That’s very kind of you,” I stammered in surprise. “Could you bring it here?”

  The old man shook his head gently. “If Miss Doyle desires tea—captain’s orders—she must come to the galley.”

  “Galley?”

  “Kitchen to you, miss.”

  “Who are you?” I demanded faintly.

  “Zachariah,” he returned. “Cook, surgeon, carpenter, and preacher to man and ship. And,” he added, “all those things to you too, miss, in that complete order if comes the doleful need. Now then, shall you have tea?”

  In fact, the thought of tea was extraordinarily comforting, a reminder that the world I knew had not entirely vanished. I couldn’t resist. “Very well,” I said. “Would you lead me to the … galley?”

  “Most assuredly,” was the old man’s reply. Stepping away from the door, he held his lantern high. I made my way out.

  We proceeded to walk along the passageway to the right, then up the short flight of steps to the waist of the ship—that low deck area between fore- and quarterdeck. Here and there lanterns glowed; masts, spars, and rigging vaguely sketched the dim outlines of the net in which I felt caught. I shuddered.

  The man called Zachariah led me down another flight of steps into what appeared to be a fairly large area. In the dimness I could make out piles of sails, as well as extra rigging—all chaotic and unspeakably filthy. Then, off to one side, I saw a small room. The old man went to it, started to enter, but paused and pointed to a small adjacent door that I had not noticed.

  “The head, miss.”

  “The what?”

  “Privy.”

  My cheeks burned. Even so, never have I felt—secretly—so grateful. Without a word I rushed to use it. In moments I returned. Zachariah was waiting patiently. Without further ado he went into the galley. I followed with trepidation, stopping at the threshold to look about.

  From the light of his flickering lantern I could see that it was a small kitchen complete with cabinets, wood stove, even a table and a little stool. The space, though small, had considerable neatness, with utensils set in special niches and corners. Knives placed just so. An equal number of spoons and forks. Tumblers, pots, cups, pans. All that was needed.

  The old man went right to the stove where a teapot was already on, hot enough to be issuing steam.

  He pulled a cup from a niche, filled it with fragrant tea, and offered it. At the same time he gestured me to the stool.

  Nothing, however, could have compelled me to enter further. Though stiff and weary I preferred to stand where I was. Even so, I tasted the tea and was much comforted.

  As I drank Zachariah looked at me. “It may well be,” he said softly, “that Miss Doyle will have use for a friend.”

  Finding the suggestion—from him—unpleasant, I chose to ignore it.

  “I can assure you,” he said with a slight smile, “Zachariah can be a fine friend.”

  “And I can assure you,” I returned, “that the captain will have made arrangements for my social needs.”

  “Ah, but you and I have much in common.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “But we do. Miss Doyle is so young! I am so old! Surely there is something similar in that. And you, the sole girl, and I, the one black, are special on this ship. In short, we begin with two things in common, enough to begin a friendship.”

  I looked elsewhere. “I don’t need a friend,” I said.

  “One always needs a final friend.”

  “Final friend?”

  “Someone to sew the hammock,” he returned.

  “I do not understand you.”

  “When a sailor dies on voyage, miss, he goes to his resting place in the sea with his hammock sewn about him by a friend.”

  I swallowed my tea hastily, handed the cup back, and made a move to go.

  “Miss Doyle, please,” he said softly, taking the cup but holding me with his eyes, “I have something else to offer.”

  “No more tea, thank you.”

  “No, miss. It is this.” He held out a knife.

  With a scream I jumped back.

  “No, no! Miss Doyle. Don’t misunderstand! I only wish to give you the knife as protection—in case you need it.” He placed a wooden sheath on the blade and held it out.

  The knife was, as I came to understand, what’s called a dirk, a small daggerlike blade hardly more than six inches in length from its white scrimshaw handle, where a star design was cut, to its needle-sharp point. Horrified, I was capable only of shaking my head.

  “Miss Doyle doesn’t know what might happen,” he urged, as though suggesting it might rain on a picnic and he was offering head covering.

  “I know nothing about knives,” I whispered.

  “A ship sails with any wind she finds,” he whispered. “Take it, miss. Place it where it may be reached.”

  So saying, he took my hand and closed my fingers over the dirk. Cringing, I kept it.

  “Yes,” he said with a smile, patting my fingers. “Now Miss Doyle may retu
rn to her cabin. Do you know the way?”

  “I’m not certain …”

  “I will guide you.”

  He left me at my door. Once inside I hurriedly stowed the dirk under the thin mattress (resolving never to look at it again) and somehow struggled into my bed. There, fully dressed, I sought rest, fitfully dozing only to be awakened by a banging sound: my cabin door swinging back and forth—rusty hinges rasping—with the gentle sway of the ship.

  Then I heard, “The only one I could get to come, sir, is the Doyle girl. And with them looking on, I had to put on a bit of a show about wanting to keep her off.”

  “Quite all right, Mr. Keetch. If there has to be only one, she’s the trump. With her as witness, they’ll not dare to move. I’m well satisfied.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The voices trailed away.

  For a while I tried to grasp what I’d heard, but I gave it up as incomprehensible. Then, for what seemed forever, I lay listening as the Seahawk, tossed by the ceaseless swell, heaved and groaned like a sleeper beset by evil dreams.

  At last I slept—only to have the ship’s dreams become my own.

  I AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING IN MY NARROW BED—FULLY CLOTHED—AND A STARK TRUTH CAME TO ME. I WAS WHERE NO PROPER young lady should be. I needed only to close my eyes again to hear my father use those very words.

  But as I lay there, feeling the same tossing motion I’d felt when falling asleep—I took it to be that of a ship moored to the dock—I recollected Mr. Grummage saying that the Seahawk was due to leave by the morning’s first tide. It was not too late. I would ask to be put ashore, and in some fashion—I hardly cared how—I’d make my way back to the Barrington School. There, with Miss Weed, I would be safe. She would make the necessary decisions.

  Having composed my mind I sat up with some energy only to strike my head upon the low ceiling. Chastened, I got myself to the cabin floor. Now I discovered that my legs had become so weak, so rubbery, I all but sank to my knees. Still, my desperation was such that nothing could stop me. Holding on to now one part of the wall, now another, I made my way out of the cabin into the dim, close steerage and up the steps to the waist of the ship, only to receive the shock of my life.