Several of the girls have joined hands and are dancing in a circle, singing. Hepzibah is lining up other girls, saying, "Oh, we just must have Mr. Handel's 'Hallelujah Chorus' from the Messiah, as we are truly delivered." And then Clarissa is at my left hand, smirking. "See," she says, "we didn't need you after all." Now Constance is at my right hand, saying smugly, "That's right, you know. God delivered us, not Jacky Faber. You ought to be ashamed for the way you've behaved."
There is a low booommm, and a puff of smoke drifts away from the bow of the Constitution. They have fired a warning shot across our bow.
"Shut the flaps," shouts Captain Blodgett, and down they come, plunging us into darkness in the middle of the day. The girls' former joy has been considerably dampened. We sit there in the dark and wait. A hand goes into mine, and I know that it's Rebecca's. I give it a hopeful squeeze.
There is another boom. Then the flaps on the starboard side suddenly go back up and light pours into the Hold. Oh, no! I realize in despair, the side that can't be seen from the Constitution! And these men can't be caught with the evidence that is us!
There is a rattling of keys in locks, and Sin-Kay and Chubbuck and the Mate Dunphy hurry in and onto the Stage. They are followed by Mick and Keefe and two other sailors, all of whom rush down into the Pit.
"Get in the line!" orders Sin-Kay. "Now!"
The girls, shocked, start to do it.
"No, no!" I shout. "Don't do it! They're going to kill us! Fight! Fight!"
Dunphy rushes up to me and sticks his pistol into my mouth and grinds the barrel hard against the back of my throat and snarls, "One more word and I'll blow your brains out!" I gag and choke and can say nothing. The line forms up raggedly with much moaning and crying. I hear Clarissa putting up resistance: "God damn you to hell! Get your filthy hands—" then a thud and then no more from her.
As I knew they were going to, the sailors bring up that horror: the marching chain. Rebecca is the first in line and she shrinks back in terror as a man reaches for her. But he takes her roughly by the arm and puts the first neck manacle in the chain around her thin little neck and snaps it shut. Then he takes the next in line, Ruth Alden, and does the same to her, and so on down the line. Piteous pleas for mercy fall on uncaring ears as the grim work proceeds. Sally, then Hermione, then Helen, Dorothea, and my poor Annie, then Priscilla and on and on till Katy Deere, and then it's Mick himself who clamps the cold hard thing around my own neck and says, "Sorry, kid," and then does the same to Dolley, and then Elspeth, who is already dead in the eyes, and then Martha, and Clarissa, groggy from Chub-buck's blow, then Connie, her hands up in prayer, then Wilhelmina, and Chrissy and Judy and Lissette, and on down the line to Sylvie, then Hyacinth, Barbara, Caroline, Hepzibah, Frances, and finally, Julia Winslow.
When they are done, there is still a length of chain with neck manacles hanging from it leading out from the one on poor Julia's neck. Chubbuck picks up that length of chain and pulls Julia toward the hatchway. She has no choice but to follow, as do all the others in her wake—those who resist are hit and kicked till they move along.
The light blinds us as we are led on deck. Chubbuck takes his end of the chain over to an opening in the rail where a gangway might ordinarily be put, but as my eyes become used to the light, I see that an anchor, a big one, weighing maybe a hundred pounds, sits there, instead. It is poised right on the edge.
"Hurry up!" yells the Captain from the quarterdeck. "They're almost upon us!"
Chubbuck hastily secures the anchor to the end of the chain—the last neck manacle snapped shut around the shaft of the anchor does the job. He then wastes no time in kicking the anchor over the side.
The chain plays out and suddenly Julia—dear delicate little Julia Winslow—is jerked over the side to follow the anchor down, Julia, who hardly makes a splash when she hits the water. Then it's Frances who follows her in, then Hepzibah, then Caroline, then Barbara, Hyacinth, and good-bye Sylvie! and then Abby, Cloris, and splash by dismal splash, they each go over, dragged down by the relentless weight of the anchor. We are pulled forward, step by step. I try to hold on to the rail to slow down that awful pull, but Dunphy hits my hand with his club and I can't do nothin' but let go and be dragged—oh God—dragged along with the rest. Splash by splash, now Cathy, then Lissette, who holds her head high all the way to the edge, but her neck, too, is jerked violently sideways and she goes over and down with the rest. Now Judy, now Chrissy, now Wilhelmina, then Connie, her hands staying together in prayer as she goes headfirst into the sea. Clarissa is next and the last thing she does on this earth is spit in Chubbuck's eye, and then she's over, too, in spite of all the life that was in her. I'm getting closer now, closer to my own end, close enough to see those ahead of me disappear into the depths ... Good-bye, Martha, and then Elspeth's pathetic splash. I hold Dolley's hand in mine till it's wrenched from my grip and then it's my turn to feel the awful weight and I am pulled over and into the water and Katy and the rest are dragged in after me.
I futilely hold my breath as long as I can as I go down and down. I can see those who have gone before me, their dresses looking like black orchids floating in the dark blueness, their white legs and feet twinkling like the middle parts of the flowers before they wink out of sight, down into the depths, one by one.
I can't hold my breath any longer and I close my eyes and I open my mouth and my lungs fill and I choke—oh God— I choke, and then I start screaming and a part of my dying self wonders how I could be screaming underwater, but still I scream and scream and...
...and I open my eyes again and I find myself not hurtling down to the blackness at the bottom of the sea but instead in the darkness of the belly of the Bloodhound, being comforted by Annie and Sylvie and Rebecca, who are holding my screaming, choking, and shaking self and pleading with me to wake up, Jacky! Oh, please wake up!
Chapter 31
The work continues. On this afternoon, after Chorus and burgoo, I gather Clarissa and Dolley to talk about long-range plans. We sit on the Stage, cross-legged, knees touching, in a circle of three.
"We've turned east," I say, "and that means we're heading over to Africa. From what I can see of the sun, and judging from the heat, I suspect we were well off the coast of Florida when they put the helm over."
"Which means?" asks Dolley, eyebrows up.
"Which means they intend to stay below the sea-lanes and out of sight as much as possible. It also means that our time is growing shorter."
Dolley and Clarissa are considering this when Constance Howell walks up next to us and says, "I am planning on forming a prayer group. Do I need your permission for that?" she asks, looking down her nose. Of all the girls, she has resisted the three-division, three-officer setup the most.
"That will be all right, as long as it doesn't interfere with your other duties," I say. Clarissa and Dolley nod in agreement.
"Good," replies Constance. "We shall pray for our deliverance," she says smugly. "And for your salvation," she adds, looking pointedly at me. "You are all invited to join us"
Clarissa snorts and waves her off contemptuously, but I don't let it go. "Pray for deliverance? Don't you think God would like us to get out of this ourselves? He must get awful annoyed with those prayers coming up at Him all the time."
"Do not blaspheme, Miss," says Connie, sternly.
I sigh and think, Did anyone ever have less use for me? "I am not being disrespectful, I am just thinking."
"If we are to be saved, it is God who will deliver us, not you, Miss Faber, and don't let your pride make you think otherwise." She's really getting hot now. Christina King, Catherine Lowell, and Minerva Corbett are lurking in the shadows behind her. That must be the prayer group.
"Well, He might help," I say, in a musing way. "But then again, He might not. Maybe He is testing you, Constance Howell, to see how much you can take and still remain devoted to Him. Think of poor Job, in the Bible—sores all over his body, his crops fail, his wife and sons and daughters die, and still he remains faithful to his God. Hey, Connie, maybe God hasn't even started on you yet. Maybe He'd like to see how you hold up spiritually when you're on the auction block? Ever think of that?"
She spins on her heels and goes off in a huff.
"All right. Back to business," says Dolley.
"Right," says I. "Anyway, we've got to get moving on things."
"But what else can we do, besides the carving?"
"Well, I've been thinking. The lookouts report that this is not a happy ship: There's the Captain, Mate, and Chubbuck ... they've got no use for Sin-Kay, who doesn't like them any more than they like him. And then there's the crew ... they ain't exactly a gang of good friends, either—there's little groups of 'em who hang together and don't mix much with the others."
"So?" asks Clarissa, idly chewing on a fingernail.
"So I say we turn 'em against each other even more—get 'em distrustful, nervouslike ... make 'em think they're on an unlucky ship. There's nothing more superstitious than a sailor, I can tell you that. Katy tells me some of the crew have been listening to our singing and storytelling at night—we might be able to use that. And if we get 'em turned against each other, they won't fight as a group when we make our break. See?"
Both Dolley and Clarissa nod, so I continue. "I'll work on the crew, first through Mick and Keefe. Then, well, we'll see what develops. Clarissa, keep needling Sin-Kay, but be careful, you don't want to push him too far."
Clarissa grins. "It'll be an absolute pleasure," she purrs.
"How are your divisions?" I ask. We report on the divisions every day.
"Mine's all right," answers Dolley. "Wilhelmina had the sniffles, but she's better now. A few of them are down in the dumps, but you know how that goes."
"Well I know," I say. "I still can't get Elspeth to come back around."
"Let her die," says Clarissa. "The dirty little snitch"
"Now, Clarissa," I begin, but I'm interrupted by the sight of Judy Leavitt's head appearing at the edge of the Stage. She wipes sweat off her brow with the back of her hand. It's plain she's been working down below at the Rat Hole.
"Jacky, come look. We got past that big knot and are into some really soft wood now. A big chunk just came out."
We leap down into the Pit to go under the Stage to the Hole. Caroline, who has continued to work the edge with the knife, stops when I lay my hand on her shoulder and whisper, "Caroline, get up and let me look."
I gasp in delight. They have made amazing progress. There's easily enough room now for me to poke my head through. "Beautiful work!" I whisper. As the Hole has gotten bigger, we have made a rule that only whispers can be spoken down at the work site, so that anyone who chances to be outside of that room beyond the Rat Hole doesn't pick up our voices. Everyone knows that if the Hole is discovered, we are lost.
I go down on my belly and stick my head through and wait for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. I give it a good five minutes, but all that swims out of the gloom is a faint strip of light at floor level off to the right. My suspicion that it's the crack under a door is confirmed when the light flutters, as if someone had just walked past. Please don't come in, not yet! But they walk on, and all is well. I let out my breath and slide back out.