by Avi
Before I could respond, Grimes leaped forward, calling, “I’ll do it, sir!” Grimes was one of the bearded ones, quick to flare, quick to forget.
“The call was for Mr. Doyle,” returned the captain. “Does he refuse?”
“No, sir,” I said and hurried to the knighthead from which the bowsprit thrust forward.
Grimes hurried along with me, offering hasty instructions in my ear, as well as urging a splicing knife upon me.
I took it and put it in a pocket.
“Charlotte, do you see that line out there?” he asked, pointing to the twisted line at the far end of the bowsprit that had snarled the jib.
I nodded.
“Don’t monkey with the sail itself. All you need do is cut the rope. The sail will free itself and we’ve got others. Mind, you’ll need to cut sharp, then swing down under the bowsprit in one quick jump, or the sail will toss you in. Understand?”
Again I nodded.
“Time yourself proper. If the ship plunges, the sea will up and grab you.”
So cocky had I become that I leaped to the head rail with little thought or worry, then set my foot upon the bowsprit itself. I saw that I needed to walk out along this bowsprit some twenty feet—not too difficult a task, I thought, because the back rope was something I could cling to.
As I had by now learned to do, I started off by keeping my eyes on the bowsprit and my bare feet, inching step by step along it. The hiss of the water rushing below was pronounced, the bowsprit itself wet and slippery with foam. No matter. What took me by surprise was the bowsprit’s wild bobbing.
Halfway along I glanced back. For the first time since I’d boarded the ship, I saw the figurehead clearly, the pale white seahawk with wings thrust back against the bow, its head extended forward, beak open wide in a scream. As the bow dipped, this open beak dropped and dropped again into the sea, coming up each time with foam streaming like a rabid dog. So startled was I by the frightful vision that for a moment I froze until a sudden plunge of the ship almost tumbled me seaward.
I reached the crucial point soon enough, but only by curling my toes tight upon the bowsprit, and holding fast onto the back rope line with one hand was I able to free the other to take Grimes’s splicing knife from my pocket.
I leaned forward and began to cut. The tightness of the tangled line helped. The knife cut freely. Too much so. The last remaining strands snapped with a crack, the sail boomed out, flicking away at my cutting hand—and the knife went flying into the sea. Even as I lunged for it the bowsprit plunged. I slipped and started to fall. By merest chance I made a successful grab at the bowsprit itself, which left me hanging, feet dangling, only a few feet above the rushing sea.
As the Seahawk plunged and plunged again, I was dunked to my waist, to my chest. I tried to swing myself up to hook my feet over, but I could not. The sea kept snatching at me, trying to pull me down while I dangled there kicking wildly, uselessly. Twice my head went under. Blinded, I swallowed water, choked. Then I saw that only by timing my leg swings to the upward thrust of the ship could I save myself.
The ship heaved skyward. With all my might I swung my legs up and wrapped them about the bowsprit, but again the Seahawk plunged. Into the tearing sea I went, clutching the spar. Then up. This time I used the momentum to swing over, so I was now atop the bowsprit, straddling it, then lying on it.
Someone must have called to the man at the helm. The ship shifted course. Found easier water. Slowed. Ceased to plunge so.
Gasping for breath, spitting seawater, I was able to pull myself along the bowsprit and finally, by stepping on the wooden bird’s furious head, climbed over the rail. Grimes was there to help me onto the deck and give me an enthusiastic hug of approval.
The captain, of course, watched me stony-faced.
“Mister Doyle,” he barked. “Come here!”
Though greatly shaken, I had no time to be frightened. I had done the task and knew I’d done it. I hurried to the quarterdeck.
“When I ask you to do a job,” the captain said, “it’s you I ask, and not another. You’ve caused us to change course, to lose time!” And before I could respond, he struck me across the face with the back of his hand, then turned and walked away.
My reaction was quick. “Coward!” I screamed at him. “Fraud!”
He spun about, and began to stride back toward me, his scarred face contorted in rage.
But I, in a rage myself, wouldn’t give way. “I can’t wait till Providence!” I shouted at him. “I’ll go right to the courts! You won’t be captain long! You’ll be seen by everyone as the cruel despot you are!” And I spat upon the deck by his boots.
My words made him turn as pale as a ghost—a ghost with murder in his eye. But then, abruptly, he gained control of himself and, as he’d done on previous occasions, whirled about and left the deck.
I turned away, feeling triumphant. Much of the crew had seen it all. But there were no more hurrahs.
The moment passed. Nothing more was said, save by Grimes, who insisted that I take lessons in the handling of a knife, carrying it, using it, even throwing it. On my first watch off he had me practice on the deck for three hours.
Two more days passed without incident. In that time, however, the sky turned a perpetual gray. The air thickened with moisture. Winds rose and fell in what I thought was a peculiar pattern. Toward the end of the second day when Barlow and I were scraping down the capstan, I saw a branch on the waves. A red bird was perched on the branch.
“Look!” I cried with delight, pointing to the bird. “Does that mean we’re close to land?”
Barlow hauled himself up to take a look. He shook his head. “That bird’s from the Caribbean. One thousand miles off. I’ve seen them there. Blood bird, they call them.”
“What’s it doing here?”
After a moment he said, “Storm driven.”
I looked at him in surprise. “What kind of storm would blow a bird that far?” I asked, wide-eyed.
“Hurricane.”
“What’s a hurricane?”
“The worst storm of all.”
“Can’t we sail around?”
Barlow again glanced at the helm, the sails, and then at the sky above. He frowned. “I heard Mr. Hollybrass and Jaggery arguing about it. To my understanding,” he said, “I don’t think the captain wants to avoid it.”
“Why not?”
“It’s what Grimes has been saying. The captain’s trying to move fast. If he sets us right at the hurricane’s edge, it’ll blow us home like a pound of shot in a two-pound cannon.”
“What if he doesn’t get it right?”
“Two pounds of shot in a one-pound cannon.”
TWO BELLS INTO THE MORNING OF OUR FORTY-FIFTH DAY, THE STORM STRUCK.
“All hands! All hands!”
Even as the cry came, the Seahawk pitched and yawed violently. Whether I got out of my hammock on my own, or was tossed by the wrenching motion of the ship, to this day I do not know. But I woke to find myself sprawling on the floor, the curtain torn asunder, the forecastle in wildest confusion. Above my head the lantern swung grotesquely, the men’s possessions skittered about like billiard balls, trunks rolled helter-skelter. The watch was scrambling up.
As the ship plunged, and plunged again, the cry, “All hands! All hands!” came repeatedly, more urgent than I’d ever heard it.
“Hurricane!” I heard as well.
There was a frantic dash out of the forecastle and to the deck. I followed too, trying to pull on my jacket as I ran against the violent pitching of the ship.
Though long past dawn, the sky was still dark. A heavy rain, flung wildly by wind that screamed and moaned like an army in mortal agony, beat upon the deck in rhythms only a mad drummer could concoct. The sea hurled towering wall upon towering wall of foaming fury over us. One such tossed me like some drop of dew across the deck where I—fortunately—crashed against a wall. As I lay stunned and bruised, gasping for breath, I caught sight of Mr. H
ollybrass and Captain Jaggery in the midst of a furious dispute.
“… no profit to be found at the bottom of the sea!” I heard the first mate cry above the storm.
“Mr. Hollybrass, we sail through!” the captain returned, breaking away to shout, “All hands aloft! All hands aloft!”
I could hardly believe my ears. To go up into the rigging in this! But when I looked skyward I could see the reason why. Under the brutal force of the wind, many of the sails had pulled free from their running ropes and were now tearing and snapping out of control, pulling themselves into wild whips.
“All hands aloft! All hands aloft!” came the cry again. It was pleading, desperate.
I could see the men—bent far over to buck wind and rain—struggling toward the shrouds. I pulled myself to my feet, only to be knocked down by still another wave. Again I staggered up, grasping a rope, managing to hold on with the strength of my two hands. Now I was able to stand—but just barely. Slowly I made my way toward the forward mast. When I reached it—it seemed to take forever—Captain Jaggery was already there, trying frantically to lash down ropes and rigging.
“What shall I do?” I shouted to his back. Shouting was the only way I could make myself heard.
“Cut away the foreyard before it pulls the mast down!” he yelled back. I’m not certain he realized it was me. “Do you have a knife?” he called.
“No!”
Even as he reached into a back pocket, he turned. When he saw it was me, he hesitated.
“A knife!” I cried.
He handed one to me.
“Where?” I called.
“Didn’t you hear me?” he cried, gesticulating wildly. “Cut that sail away!”
I looked up. I could not see far into the sheets of rain. The Seahawk’s wild pitching had set the mast to shaking as if it had the palsy. Only the foreyard was visible, and the sail was blowing from it almost into the shape of a balloon. Suddenly the sail collapsed into itself, then filled again. It would burst soon or fly off with the mast.
“Up, damn you! Up! Hurry!” Captain Jaggery screamed.
I reached into the rigging but stopped, realizing I couldn’t climb and hold the knife. With the blade between my teeth I again grasped the rigging, and using both hands I began to climb.
Though I was in fact climbing into the air, I felt as though I were swimming against a rising river tide. But more than rain or waves it was the screaming wind that tore at me. I could hardly make out where I was going. To make matters worse my wet and heavy hair, like a horse’s tail, kept whipping across my face. I might have been blindfolded.
Desperate, I wrapped my legs and one arm about the ropes. With my one free arm I pulled my hair around, grasped it with the hand entwined in the ropes, and pulled it taut. I took the knife and hacked. With a shake of my head my thirteen year’s growth of hair fell away. Feeling much lighter, I bit down onto the blade again and once more began to climb.
Every upward inch was a struggle, as though I were forcing myself between the fingers of God’s angry fist. And it was not just the elements that attacked.
Below me—when I dared to look—the deck blurred into a confusing mass of water, foam, decking, and now and again a struggling man. I was certain the Seahawk would flounder, that we were doomed to drown. I told myself not to look, to concentrate on what I had to do.
Up I went. The rain hissed. Thunder boomed. Lightning cracked. Human cries came too, shouts that rose up through the maelstrom, words I couldn’t catch. But what they betokened was terror.
As I crept further up the mast the sail billowed out and away from me. The next moment the wind shifted and the great canvas collapsed, smashing its full wet weight against me, as though with a conscious mind to knock me from the rigging. Desperately, I clung to the ropes with legs and arms. Then out the sail snapped. The ensuing vacuum all but sucked me off. God knows how, but I held on and continued up.
I heard, threaded through the wailing wind, a ghastly, shrieking sound, then a tremendous splintering of wood. Could it, I wondered, be my mast? Was I about to be hurled into the waves? I dared not stop and think. But the mast held.
Hand over hand, foot after foot, I struggled upward. I was certain we were all about to die, whether above the waves or beneath them, it hardly seemed to matter. All I wanted was to reach that sail, as if by doing so I could rise above the chaos. To cut that sail free was my only purpose. I would not, could not, think of anything else. Sometimes I paused just to hang on, to gasp for breath, to remind myself I lived. But then, once again, I continued up. It felt like hours. It probably took minutes. At last I reached my goal.
The foreyard is one of the biggest sails, one of a sailing ship’s true engines. But even though it worked hard for the ship under normal circumstances, in this storm it strained against her as if trying to uproot the mast from the deck. Despite the roaring wind that beat about me, I could hear the creaking of the mast, could see it bend like a great bow. What I needed to do—had to do—was cut that sail free and release the terrible strain upon the mast.
Fearful of wasting any time I simply straddled the spar to which the sail’s top edge was lashed and backed out toward its end, hacking away at each piece of rope as I came upon it. Fortunately, the lines were so taut, and the blade so sharp, I hardly had to cut. The moment I touched a rope with the knife’s edge, strands flew apart as if exploding.
With each rope I cut the sail blew out more freely, flapping in such frenzy it began to shred into tiny strands that I could no longer distinguish from the streaking rain.
Bit by bit I moved along, cutting as I went, until I reached the spar’s furthest end. There I had to make another decision: should I cut the lines that held the spar itself? What would happen if I did so? If I did not? I looked about in the vain hope that another of the crew might be near. To my surprise I did see the shadowy form of someone above, but who he was I couldn’t tell. In any case, he was climbing further up the mast than I!
I decided not to cut more lines. Someone else could do so if that’s what needed to be done. My job was to cut away the rest of the sail, which meant going back the way I’d come and proceeding out along the spar toward the opposite end.
The spar, however—with its lopsided weight, and me at one end—was swinging and lurching about so wildly I feared it might break free and drop with me on it. I had to get back to the mast. But the foot ropes were gone; in my wild hacking I’d cut them free too. I would have to drag myself along. With the knife again clamped between my teeth, arms tightly locked around the spar, I flung myself down and tried to slide forward. But at the next lurch of the spar, my legs slipped away. The knife fell from my mouth. In a small part of a second I was now dangling, legs down, facing away from the mast, about to drop into the wildest scene imaginable.
I had no choice. I now had to clamber—hand over hand and backward—toward the mast. But as much as I tried for speed I could move only in tiny increments. The wind and rain—as well as the tossing motion of the ship—kept impeding me. I was dangling in the hurricane winds, twisting.
Over my shoulder I could see that the mast was not far out of reach. But then my arms began to cramp.
“Help!” I screamed. “Help me!” One hand lost its grip.
Four feet from the mast I tried to swing myself back in the vain hope of grasping the mast with my legs. The attempt only weakened my hold more. I was certain I was going to drop.
“Help!” I screamed into the wind.
Suddenly, a figure appeared on the spar. “Charlotte!” I heard. “Take my hand!” And indeed, a hand was thrust toward my face. I reached for it frantically, grabbed it, clung to it, as it clung to me, its fingers encircling my wrist in an iron grip. For a moment I was hanging by that one hand. Then I was yanked upward onto the spar so I could get my legs around it and locked. Gasping for breath, I glanced up at the figure who was now scrambling away. It was Zachariah.
For one brief moment I was certain I had died and he was an ang
el. But I hardly had time for thought. For just above me, I heard a great wrenching explosion. I looked up to see that the foreyard had ripped away. As the sail spun off in the wind I caught a glimpse of its gray mass twisting and turning into oblivion like a tormented soul cast down to Hell.
I spun back around. The man I thought to be Zachariah had vanished. But even as I gazed in wonder, the Seahawk, free from the sail’s pull and weight, heeled violently. To my horror I saw the ocean rush up toward me. We were capsizing. But then suddenly, the ship shivered and righted herself.
Gasping for breath I clawed my way forward until I reached the mast, which I hugged as though it were life itself. Without the knife there was nothing more I could do aloft. In any case the sail I had been sent to free was gone. I began to descend, slipping more than I climbed.
I jumped the last few feet onto the deck. I don’t know if the storm had somewhat abated or I’d just grown used to it. There were still strong winds and the rain beat upon us as before. But the fury of the hurricane somehow softened. I looked about. Spars, some entangled with sails, lay in heaps. Railings were splintered. Dangling ropes flapped about. Then I saw some of the men on the quarterdeck working frantically with axes. I hurried to join them.
Only then did I realize the mainmast was gone. All that remained was a jagged stump. I thought of the shriek I’d heard.
Looking toward the stern, I saw Fisk slumped over the wheel. His great arms were spread wide, his hands clutching the wheel spokes. He could not have stayed upright had he not been lashed into place.
I joined the men.
Beneath the continual if now somewhat slackened downpour we all pulled at the great mound of downed spars and sails. Those that were dragging overboard, we cut loose and let go. Those we could move we flung into the waist.
And then, quite suddenly—as if Heaven itself had triumphed over darkness—the rain ceased. The sea subsided into a roiling calm. Even the sun began to shine. And when I looked up I saw—to my astonishment—a blue sky.