Deadly Shoals

by Joan Druett

  Ten

  At that awful moment Wiki was abruptly saved, by none other than Lieutenant Forsythe. The double doors swung open with a slam, revealing the burly figure of the notorious Virginian, looking even larger than usual because of the shining wet oilskins with which he was swathed. The ship executed a sharp pitch at the same second, and everyone hopped as a wash of dirty water came sweeping down the corridor and into the room.

  “Compliments of Lieutenant Craven,” Forsythe barked.

  “What is it?” said Captain Wilkes impatiently. Craven was the first lieutenant of the flagship, and therefore the most senior of his officers, and, it seemed, was currently in charge of the deck.

  “The weather’s kicking up and a dense fog is rolling in. Boats from the Porpoise and the Peacock are waiting alongside, sir, and he advises that if the scientifics want to get back to their ships, they’d better shift right now. And,” said Forsythe, his brows lifting high as he took in Wiki’s appearance, “a cutter from the Swallow is here for Mr. Coffin, as well.”

  The room emptied with remarkable suddenness. Some of the scientifics even shoved Forsythe to one side in their hurry, despite his fearsome reputation. Within two moments Wiki was alone with Captain Wilkes, while Forsythe waited restively by the door.

  “I’d like to talk with you, sir,” he said. “I’ve got a lot to tell you about what happened on shore, and there are questions—”

  “Tomorrow,” said Captain Wilkes impatiently. “I’ll see you at four bells in the forenoon watch, and this time don’t be so bloody late.”

  Wiki hesitated, but was too wise to argue.

  “And for God’s sake, come looking more civilized!”

  “Aye, sir,” said Wiki, and hastily followed Forsythe down the corridor.

  “You’re a beggar for punishment,” observed the southerner as the cutter hauled away from the flagship. “Why are you dressed up like one of the local desperadoes? He’s right that you look bloody uncivilized! And what the hell do you want to talk to him for, anyway? About that thousand dollars you’ve been chasing up for a spouterman what was boneheaded enough to get himself sold a disappearin’ schooner by a bloody rascal of a storekeeper?”

  Wiki said glumly to all of this, “Aye.”

  “Did you find anything?”

  “The storekeeper’s corpse.”

  Forsythe’s eyes widened at that. “Murdered by the thief?”

  “Apparently.”

  “And the schooner?”

  “Sailed long since.”

  “What about the thousand dollars? Gone too, you know not where?”

  Wiki nodded, and Forsythe let out an irritating guffaw. “What kind of sleuth do you call yourself?”

  This was depressingly like the previous day’s conversation with Rochester. Instead of honoring the rhetorical question with an answer, Wiki said, “Thanks for the rescue.”

  “Cap’n Rochester’s orders.”

  Captain Rochester? Wiki was amazed that the word should come so naturally from the Virginian’s lips. Never would he have believed that Forsythe would be so easygoing about being second-in-command to George; never would he have credited that switching a gold epaulette from one shoulder to another could make such a difference. Rochester’s elevation had much greater significance than he could ever have guessed, he realized, particularly when it was remembered that Forsythe had been a lieutenant for God alone knew how long, while George had just attained that rank. Was it possible that the unlikely combination wasn’t so disastrous, after all? Being acutely aware of his vast ignorance of the ways of the navy, Wiki did not have a notion, but was beginning to feel a touch of relief.

  He said, “Is that why you made up that story about a fog coming in?”

  Though the water was undercut with a nasty swell that pitched the boat in every direction, making Forsythe work hard at the tiller, the waves were no longer breaking, the wind had entirely died away, and the air was pristine. Mists were rising off the river, but certainly not the sea.

  “It ain’t made up—it’s on the way.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “The bloody temperature’s dropped, hasn’t it? Ten degrees, or I’m a Dutchman.”

  Wiki wondered why Forsythe thought fogs and drops in temperature were related, but then they arrived on board the Swallow. After the harrowing days he had spent on shore, it had all the connotations of arriving back home, complete with the wonderful smells of good food that wafted up from the cozy saloon with its welcoming table as he followed Forsythe down the companionway stairs.

  There were two louvered doors on the larboard side of this mess room, leading to the mates’ staterooms. Out of sheer habit, Wiki went to the sternmost one, which led to the abode of the first officer. He stopped himself just in time. When he turned round Forsythe was watching, his beefy tattooed arms folded, a malicious grin on his broad, red face.

  With a rueful lift of an eyebrow, Wiki went to the second door, to find that though his sea chest was stowed neatly under the double bunk, his books and the broken pieces of his shelf, along with his lamp, had been tossed into a careless heap on the topmost berth. Well, at least it was the upper one, he thought—if Midshipman Keith had snared the top bunk in his absence, he would have had a foot planted in his face every time the young man got in or out of bed.

  Carrying the pieces of his shelf, he went out on deck. Dark was falling and it was colder than ever. Rochester, on watch on the quarterdeck, was huddled in Stackpole’s poncho. However, the steerage, where the carpenter, boatswain, sailmaker, gunner, cook, and steward lived, was cozy in the extreme. Braving the companionable fug of pipe smoke, Wiki borrowed a hammer and nails, and garnered a little advice in the carpentering way. Then, by the time he had his berth fixed up the way he liked it, and the tools were returned, suppertime was nigh.

  As he briskly washed and changed into clean clothes, he could hear voices in the tiny pantry. One was Stoker, the steward, while the other was Robert Festin, their stowaway chef. The latter was easily distinguished because of his vocabulary, which was a weird combination of Abnaki Indian and the antique French of the remotest maritime provinces, plus English vulgarities learned from Forsythe, the rudest of kitchen Portuguese, and Maori phrases taught by Wiki himself. Festin was supposed to have left the fleet at Rio, having been trapped into a marriage arrangement, but he had stolen back on board the day before the wedding, and the crew of the Swallow had kept quiet about it because of his famous cooking.

  When Wiki rejoined Forsythe in the saloon, Festin himself emerged from the pantry, a short, squat figure poised on spindly legs, his swarthy face stretched wide in a gap-toothed grin of delight. As Wiki knew well, though the cook was undoubtedly pleased to see him back, most of the joy was reserved for Forsythe, whom Festin adored, though the Virginian would have killed him without compunction if he’d suspected it. Having his idol permanently assigned to the Swallow was the pinnacle of delight.

  Now he showed them the pan he carried, saying smugly, “Bloody good,” in English, and repeating it in te reo Maori with a resounding, “Kapai!”

  Kapai indeed, thought Wiki, because the crisply crusted, fragrant dish certainly promised to be scrumptious. He headed for the forward end of the table, where there was a small bench set against the foot of the mainmast, swung a leg over it, and sat down. Forsythe eased his bulk on to the bench to the starboard side, and both men watched with deep attention as Festin filled their plates with his delicious version of the traditional seaman’s lobscouse. Because he liked to watch Festin cooking, Wiki knew that the Acadian concocted this particular dish by soaking broken ship’s hard bread in fresh water until soft, draining the result, and mixing it with succulent fillets of boneless fresh fish. Piled into the pan and topped with scraps of crisply fried salt pork, it was then baked in the oven until golden on top.

  Leaving the half-full pan in the pantry, Festin headed up to the galley on the foredeck, to serve out the same delicacy to the crew, the Swallow being
a democratic vessel where the men ate the same fare as the officers. In the saloon silence reigned, save for hungry eating noises. Finally Forsythe leaned back, took a huge slurp from his coffee mug, and said with every evidence of lively interest, “So there’s a murderer running loose, huh?”

  George Rochester clattered down the companionway stairs, sat in the captain’s armchair at the sternward end of the table, and surveyed the filled plate the steward carried in with an appreciative eye. Evidently having overheard Forsythe, he observed to Wiki, “You were extraordinarily lucky to find rastreadores in your moment of need, old chap.”

  “Find what?” said Forsythe. Wiki explained about the rastreadores, while the southerner listened with deep attention. Having helped Wiki with some sleuthing in the past, he had come to pride himself on his astuteness, as Wiki knew to his cost. “Tracks?” he said at the end. “What kinda tracks?”

  “Of a train of packhorses, and a horseman who followed them. The tracks led up the Río Negro to where salt from the inland salinas is piled in dunes. All the provisions in Adams’s store had been taken away, so it’s reasonable to guess that the packhorses were carrying them to the schooner, which was anchored there at the time, loading salt.”

  “But that’s bloody stupid!” Forsythe exclaimed. “Why not sail the vessel back to the village after the salt had been loaded, and collect the goods there? That would’ve made a damn sight more sense!”

  Wiki said, “I agree.”

  “Wa’al, the only sensible explanation is that they must’ve been in a helluva hurry.”

  Surprised, Wiki echoed, “Hurry?”

  “Yup. They was prime anxious to get her loaded and out to sea afore the spouterman come back for his purchase.”

  Wiki blinked. “You’re right!” he exclaimed. “That’s why they forgot the deed!”

  “Deed? What deed?”

  Wiki described finding the deed of sale for the Grim Reaper, then added, “That’s why Adams’s killer stayed behind when the schooner sailed.”

  The Virginian stared, and then said, “Stayed behind? But that’s bloody insane! What gives you that crazy idea?”

  “The same day we found Adams’s body—which was at least a week after Adams was killed—someone killed his clerk, and stole the deed of sale.”

  Dead silence. Rochester was staring at Wiki with the same riveted expression as Forsythe. Then he said, “Another murder, old chap?”

  “Aye,” said Wiki, and told them about the discovery of the body, adding, “Adams and his clerk were both knifed the same way—brutally, in the chest.”

  “There’s a lot of that going on in South America,” Forsythe pointed out wisely.

  “I’m sure there is,” agreed Wiki. “However, it seems a good reason to believe that Adams and his clerk were killed by the same man.”

  The southerner’s tone became derisive. “You reckon the storekeeper’s killer missed the boat because he wanted to get hold of that bill of sale, but then hung around for seven or more days before he finally got around to knifing the clerk?”

  Wiki winced. “Presumably he realized then that he needed the bill of sale so he could claim legal ownership of the schooner.”

  “But the bloody schooner was gone!”

  Wiki sighed. “I know.”

  Forsythe’s expression became pitying. “And you’re goin’ to tell Wilkes this in the morning, even though it don’t make a single bit of sense?”

  “Aye,” Wiki admitted, and wondered yet again if Captain Stackpole had changed his mind and approached the expedition commodore. Reminded of the tirade in the chartroom of the Vincennes, he changed the subject, saying, “Did you know that the scientifics are supposed to wear lieutenant’s undress uniform?”

  Forsythe exclaimed, “Bloody what?”

  “According to Captain Wilkes, since the scientific corps mess with the wardroom officers, they should dress like them, too.”

  The southerner went red in the face. “I worked for goddamned years for the honor of wearing lieutenant’s uniform!” he barked. “And a bunch of bastards what do nothin’ but make observations and clutter up ships with smelly specimens get the same privilege? It’s a bloody injustice!”

  “I couldn’t agree more, old chap!” echoed George. “How would they like it if I claimed to be a fellow of one of their prestigious colleges without having earned it? I went to Harvard to look up some legal papers once, but does that qualify me for the mortarboard and gown?”

  “Absolutely bloody right!” said Forsythe.

  Never had Wiki seen the two men in such accord—and now he could see, too, why the scientifics had looked so uneasy. They, unlike the expedition commander, understood the resentment it would cause among the officers. It was one of the many ill-conceived Navy Department decisions that made Captain Wilkes’s job even harder.

  George said to him, “I assume that includes you, old chap. Do you even own a lieutenant’s undress uniform?”

  “Of course not,” Wiki said, adding, “And I wouldn’t wear it if I did.”

  “Bloody wise,” opined Forsythe. “Natives dressed up in white men’s ceremonial rig look more like goddamned savages than ever.”

  Wiki and George cast him equally impatient looks. Wiki said, “That reminds me—have either of you heard that there’s another New Zealand Maori with the expedition?”

  They both shook their heads.

  “The philologist, Horatio Hale, said there’s a Maori chief on the Peacock.”

  “Chief?” said Forsythe, and snorted with derisive amusement. “I bet they call him somethin’ different back home.”

  “The trouble,” said Wiki very seriously, “is that they call him ‘Ngati Porou.’”

  He looked at Forsythe, wondering if he would understand. About the year 1828, a couple of years after Wiki had been carried off to New England, the Virginian had hired himself out to a chief of Wiki’s own tribe, Ngapuhi, as a mercenary in their ongoing war against the Ngati Porou. While Wiki had not been there at the time, he had heard often from Forsythe how he had marched the forest warpaths and voyaged on waka taua—canoes of war—and how his advice had helped the Ngapuhi warriors win the battle. In Wiki’s candid opinion, the basic reason the Ngati Porou had lost was not the expertise of men like Forsythe, but because the Ngapuhi had been armed with the guns they had gained through barter with American and English whalers and traders, while the Ngati Porou fought with traditional weapons.

  The Virginian did see the implications of the other man’s tribal affinity: the Ngati Porou had harbored a deadly grudge against the Ngapuhi ever since, attributing their defeat to treachery, and would grasp any chance for revenge.

  He grinned evilly. “What’s the name of this bastard what’s going to kill you first chance he gets?”

  “They call him Jack Sac, but I believe his Maori name is Te Aute.”

  “How long ago did he leave New Zealand?”

  “Horatio Hale said he’d been in America for the past ten years.”

  “Then there’s a chance he witnessed one or other of the battles between your tribe and his,” Forsythe decided. “If he’s old enough, he might even have taken part.”

  “Exactly,” said Wiki. They both looked up to the wall at the top of the companionway, where Rochester stowed his pistol, musket, and dress sword on hooks. Now, Forsythe’s rifle hung there, too. Alongside it was the taiaha—a traditional quarterstaff—that Wiki had made, and a greenstone club, a prestigious mere pounamu Forsythe had looted from one of the Ngati Porou chiefs he had killed.

  “If I was you, I’d steer bloody well wide of the Peacock,” he said.

  “The same thought occurred to me,” said Wiki.

  This dire conversation was interrupted by a ruckus out on deck as a boat arrived, and then Midshipman Keith scampered noisily down the companionway. He looked extremely chilled, his lanky form huddled in coats and scarves, though his face was burned red by the wind.

  “Food!” he exclaimed, snuffing the air like a
puppy.

  They all looked at the door of the pantry, the domain of Stoker, the Swallow’s gem of a steward, who could be relied on to do something about it. When he emerged, however, Stoker said reprovingly, “Mr. Keith, I thought you was messing on the Porpoise while the survey is a-going along.”

  “I was,” the lad admitted. He folded himself onto the larboard bench at Rochester’s left hand, cast off about a dozen garments, and helped himself to coffee.

  “So, if I asked you,” went on the steward severely, “would you persist in trying to give us all the strong impression that you haven’t eaten supper already?”

  “You greedy dog!” George exclaimed, without waiting for whatever answer Constant Keith might fabricate. “And you’ve been drinking too—admit it! You smell of claret, you wicked young man!”

  “Claret?” said Forsythe alertly. “On the Porpoise? But it ain’t even Saturday.”

  “All the surveying boats made for the Porpoise in the squall, and now they’re making merry in both the foc’sle and the cabin. In fact,” Keith guilelessly went on, “some of ’em are getting most awful rotten drunk.” Then his face brightened as Stoker, having relented, came in with a bowl of lobscouse he’d found, and slapped it down on the table in front of him.

  Forsythe said, “So where the hell is Ringgold?”

  “In charge of the Sea Gull,” said Wiki, Keith’s mouth being too full to answer.

  “What the hell is he doin’ there?”

  “I was as surprised as you when I found it out.”

  “How long has this been goin’ on?”

  Wiki calculated. Today was Tuesday, so he said, “Four days at least. On Saturday I arrived down the river from El Carmen to find that the fleet had arrived, the citizens were all in a panic about it, and the Sea Gull was floundering through the shoals in the descending dark. She shot up a blue rocket, and I yelled out for a boat, but their only response was to try to shoot me dead. It was after I finally persuaded them I belonged to the Swallow that I learned Captain Ringgold was in command. And then he accused me of being a spy,” he concluded rather moodily.