Text Leveling System

The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle

RDQ:	3256	Max Word/Sent	40	Total Words	3345		Diff Words	1045
Lex	1090	Ave Word/.Sent	9	Hi Freq occurs	2354	70.4%	Hi freq	375	35.9%
AR	9.0	Long Sentences	13.1	Low Freq occurs	354	10.6%	Low freq	293	28%

JUST BEFORE DUSK IN THE LATE AFTERNOON OF JUNE 16, 1832, 1 FOUND MYSELF WALKing along the crowded docks of Liverpool, England, following a man by the name of Grummage. Though a business associate of my father, Mr. Grummage was, like my father, a gentleman. It was he my father delegated to make the final arrangements for my passage to America. He was also to meet me when I came down from school on the coach, then see me safely stowed aboard the ship that my father had previously selected.
Mr. Grummage was dressed in a black frock coat with a stove pipe hat that added to his considerable height. His somber, sallow face registered no emotion. His eyes might have been those of a dead fish.
"Miss Doyle?" he said as I stepped from the Liverpool coach.
"Yes, sir. Are you Mr. Grummage?" "I am."
"Pleased to meet you," I said, dipping a curtsy. "Quite," he returned. "Now, Miss Doyle, if you would be so good as to indicate which is your trunk, I have a man here to carry it. Next, please oblige me by following, and everything shall be as it is meant to be."
"Might I say good-bye to my chaperon?" "Is that necessary?"
"She's been very kind."]]
"Make haste then."
In a flutter of nervousness I identified my trunk, threw my arms about Miss Emerson (my sweet companion for the trip down), and bid her a tearful farewell. Then I rushed after Mr. Grummage, who had already begun to move on. A rough-looking porter, laboring behind, carried my trunk upon his back.
Our little parade reached dockside in good order. There I became instantly agog at the mass of ships that lay before us, masts and spars thick as the bristles on a brush. Everywhere I looked I saw mountains of rare goods piled high. Bales of silk and tobacco! Chests of tea! A parrot! A monkey! Oh yes, the smell of the sea was intoxicating to one who knew little more than the smell of the trim cut lawns and the fields of the Barrington School. Then too, the surging crowds of workers, sailors, and merchants-all rough-hewn, brawny men-created an exotic late afternoon hubbub. All in all it was a most delicious chaos, which, while mildly menacing, was no less exciting because of that. Indeed, in some vague way I had the feeling that it was all there for me.
"Mr. Grummage, sir," I called over the din. "What is the name of the ship I'm to sail on?"
Mr. Grummage paused briefly to look at me as though surprised I was there, to say nothing of asking a question. Then from one of his pockets he drew a screw of paper. Squinting at it he pronounced, "The Seahawk."
"Is she British or American?" "American."
"A merchant ship?" "To be sure." "How many masts?" "I don't know."
"Will the other families already be on board?"
"I should think so," he answered, exasperation in his voice. "For your information, Miss Doyle, I received word that departure was being put off, but when I checked with the captain directly he informed me that there must have been some misunderstanding. The ship is scheduled to leave with the first tide tomorrow morning. So there can be no delay."
To prove the point he turned to move again. I, however, unable to quell my excited curiosity, managed to slip in one more question.
"Mr. Grummage, sir, what is the captain's name?" Mr. Grummage stopped again, frowning in an irritated fashion, but all the same consulted his paper. "Captain Jaggery," he announced and once more turned to go. "Here!" the porter exclaimed suddenly. He had come up close and overheard our talk. Both Mr. Grummage and I looked about.
"Did you say Captain Jaggery?" the porter demanded. "Are you addressing me?" Mr. Grummage inquired, making it perfectly clear that if so, the porter had committed a serious breach of decorum.
"I was," the man said, talking over my head. "And I'm asking if I heard right when you said we was going to a ship mastered by a certain Captain Jaggery. He spoke the name Jaggery as if it were something positively loathsome.
"I was not addressing you," Mr. Grummage informed the man.
"But I hears you all the same," the porter went on, and so saying, he swung my trunk down upon the dock with such a ferocious crack that I feared it would snap in two. "I don't intend to take one more step toward anything to do with a Mr. Jaggery. Not for double gold. Not one more step."
"See here," Mr. Grummage cried with indignation. "You undertook . . ."
"Never mind what I undertook," the man retorted. "It's worth more to me to avoid that man than to close with your coin." And without another word he marched off.
"Stop! I say, stop!" Mr. Grummage called. It was in vain. The porter had gone, and quickly at that.
Mr. Grummage and I looked at each another. I hardly knew what to make of it. Nor, clearly, did he. Yet he did what he had to do: he surveyed the area in search of a replacement.
"There! You man!" he cried to the first who passed by, a huge laboring fellow in a smock. "Here's a shilling if you can carry this young lady's trunk!"
The man paused, looked at Mr. Grummage, at me, at the trunk. "That?" he asked disdainfully.
"I'll be happy to add a second shilling," I volunteered, thinking that a low offer was the problem.
"Miss Doyle," Mr. Grummage snapped. "Let me handle this."
"Two shillings," the workman said quickly. "One," Mr. Grummage countered.
"Two," the workman repeated and held his hand out to Mr. Grummage, who gave him but one coin. Then the man turned and extended his hand to me.
Hastily, I began to extract a coin from my reticule. "Miss Doyle!" Mr. Grummage objected.
"I did promise," I whispered and dropped the coin into the man's upturned palm.
"Right you are, miss," said the porter with a tip of his hat. "May the whole world follow your fashion."
This commendation of my principles of moral goodness brought a blush of pleasure that I could hardly sup-
press. As for Mr. Grummage, he made a point of clearing his throat to indicate disapproval.
"Now then," the porter asked, "where does the young lady require this?"
"Never mind where!" Mr. Grummage snapped. "Along the docks here. I'll tell you when we arrive." The money pocketed, the man lumbered over to my trunk, swung it to his shoulder with astonishing ease considering the trunk's weight and size-and said, "Lead on."
Mr. Grummage, wasting no more time, and perhaps fearful of the consequence of more talk, started off again. After guiding us through a maze of docks and quays, he came to a stop. With a half turn he announced, "There she sits," and gestured to a ship moored to the slip before us.
I had hardly looked where he pointed when I heard a thump behind. Startled, I turned and saw that the new man-the one we'd just engaged-had taken one look at the Seahawk, set down my trunk in haste, and, like the first, run off without any word of explanation at all.
Mr. Grummage barely glanced over his shoulder at the hastily departing worker. In exasperation he said, "Miss Doyle, you will wait for me here." And with rapid strides he took himself up the gangplank and onto the Seahawk where he disappeared from my view.
I stood my place, more than ever wanting to get aboard and meet the delightful children who would be my traveling companions. But as I waited on the dock for something like half an hour-all but unmoving in the waning light of day-I could only gaze upon the ship.
To say that I was unduly alarmed when I examined the Seahawk would be nonsense. I had not the remotest superstitious notion of what was to come. Nothing of the
kind. No, the Seahawk was a ship like countless others I had seen before or for that matter have seen since. Oh, perhaps she was smaller and older than I had anticipated, but nothing else. Moored to the dock, she rode the swell easily. Her standard rigging, tarred black for protection against the salt sea, rose above me, dark ladders to an increasingly dark sky, and indeed, her royal yard seemed lost in the lowering night. Her sails, tied up, that is, reefed, looked like sleeves of new-fallen snow on lofty trees.
Briefly, the Seahawk was what is known as a brig, a two-masted ship (with a snow mast behind the main), perhaps some seven hundred tons in weight, 107 feet stern to bow, 130 feet deck to mainmast cap. She was built, perhaps, in the late eighteenth or early nineteenth century. Her hull was painted black, her bulwarks white, these being the ordinary colors. Her two masts, raked slightly back, were square-rigged. She had a bowsprit too, one that stood out from her bow like a unicorn's horn.
Indeed, the one unique aspect of this ship was a carved figurehead of a pale white Seahawk beneath the bowsprit. Its wings were thrust back against the bow; its head extended forward, beak wide-open, red tongue protruding as if screaming. In the shadowy light that twisted and distorted its features I was struck by the notion that this
figure looked more like an angry, avenging angel than a docile bird.
The dockside was deserted and growing darker. I felt like taking myself up the gangplank in search of Mr. Grummage. But, alas, my good manners prevailed. I remained where I was, standing in a dreamlike state, thinking I know not what.
But gradually-like a telescope being focused-I began to realize I was watching something clinging to one of the mooring ropes on the ship's stern. It reminded me of a picture I once had seen of a sloth, an animal that hangs upside down upon jungle vines. But this-I gradually perceived-was a man. He appeared to be shimmying himself from the dock up to the Seahawk. Even as I realized what I was seeing, he boarded the ship and was gone.
I had no time to absorb that vision before I heard angry voices. Turning, I saw Mr. Grummage appear at the topgallant rail, engaged in an argument with someone I could not see. My gentleman repeatedly looked down at me, and, so I thought, gesticulated in my direction as if I were the subject of a heated discussion.
At last Mr. Grummage came down to the dock. As he drew near I saw that his face was flushed, with an angry eye that alarmed me.
"Is something amiss?" I asked in a whisper.
"Not at all!" he snapped. "All is as planned. You have been expected. The ship's cargo is loaded. The captain is ready to sail. But . . ." He trailed off, looked back at the ship, then turned again to me. "It's just that . . . You see, those two families, the ones you would be traveling with, your companions . . . they have not arrived."
"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 ferret-like 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 name 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.

Subjective Criteria

Illustrations: No support

Dialog: Multiple speakers

Dialog: Broken dialogue

Dialog: Unlabeled Speaker

Vocabulary: Many difficult words

Language: Many descriptive words

Sentences: Some Long/Complex

Text structure: Story/Poem

Inferences: Several Implications

Complexity: Several unrelated ideas

Concepts: Abstract/Complex Social

Chapters

Sequence of Events: Chronological

Mature Concepts: With some uncommon experiences

Features

Character traits

Character development

Complex implications

Integral Setting - Historical

Simple Plot

First Person

Topic

Adaptability

Adventures

Ships

*Feelings, Behaviors

Low Frequency Words

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anticipated	apelike	aroused	aspect	associate
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bulkhead	bulky	bulwarks	cargo	chaos
chaperon	commendation	committed	companion	companions
complement	complexion	compliance	compose	concern
confidence	confining	consequence	considerable	constantly
construction	construed	consulted	contracted	countered
countless	cringing	curiosity	curtsy	decking
decrepit	delegated	delicious	departing	departure
deputized	desktop	desperately	disapproval	discussion
disdainfully	dismay	distorted	docile	dockside
doubt	doyle	dreamlike	ease	echoed
echoing	educated	emerson	emotion	entryway
exasperation	exotic	extract	fashion	fault
features	fellow	ferocious	ferret	fidgeted
figurehead	flooring	flushed	forecastle	forelock
frayed	frightfully	frock	frustrated	fulfilled
furnishings	gangplank	gentleman	gesticulated	gesture
gestured	glance	glances	gnarled	gradually
guiding	hangdog	haste	hastily	height
hesitantly	hewn	hostile	hubbub	hull
hunched	identified	impression	increasingly	indicate
indicating	indignation	informed	inquired	instantly
intend	intoned	intoxicating	introduction	irritated
judgments	knowing	laboring	lantern	lawns
liverpool	loathsome	loftily	lofty	lowering
lumbered	mainmast	massive	mast	masted
mastered	masts	menacing	merchants	mildly
miserably	misunderstanding	momentary	moored	mooring
moral	murmured	mustn't	nervousness	nineteenth
notion	oakum	obedience	obey	objected
objections	obligation	oblige	opinion	opposite
ordinary	ornamentation	otherwise	outline	outward
overheard	panic	pardon	passage	passageway
passengers	paused	perceived	permeated	planks
pleasant	pleasure	pocketed	pockets	porter
positively	postures	prevailed	previously	principles
protection	protruding	prove	quarterdeck	quays
quell	raked	realize	reefed	regard
registered	remotest	repeatedly	replacement	require
respond	reticule	retorted	retreat	rigging
rough	royal	sailor	sailors	sallow
scheduled	scotland	seafaring	seahawk	selected
seriously	shaven	shilling	shillings	shimmying
shockingly	shuffled	shuffling	silenced	smock
somber	spars	specific	stammered	startled
steerage	stench	stern	stoop	stowed
stride	strides	strode	succumbing	suggestion
sup	superstitious	surely	surging	surveyed
syllable	tarred	tattered	tearful	threats
thrust	tobacco	topgallant	unable	undertook
unduly	unfocused	unicorn's	unique	unmoving
unnatural	unnecessarily	unsmiling	upraised	upturned
utter	vague	vain	vision	volunteered
voyage	waning	weathered	whisper	workman
worth	wretched	wrongs