Deadly Shoals

by Joan Druett

  * * *

  When he arrived, Constant Keith was on watch, red-nosed in the reflected light of the cresset burning in the starboard mainmast shrouds, and huddled into his jacket. To Wiki’s surprise, Forsythe was with him, perfectly sober and extremely bad-tempered. As the lieutenant revealed, Wilkes’s enraged shouts had come echoing from the Porpoise just as the cutter was about to make contact with the gun brig. While the boat with the junior officer had been checking the Osprey, the commodore himself had boarded the Porpoise, and discovered the illicit revelry. Naturally, the instant Forsythe had realized what the thunder and fury was all about, the cutter had beaten a diplomatic retreat.

  “He was carrying on like a bloody madman,” Forsythe went on, sounding scandalized. “I’ve never in my life heard such unhandsome language. You was bloody lucky you left the Porpoise when you did,” he informed young Keith, “or you’d be triced up in the rigging with the rest.”

  “Who was there at the spree?” Wiki asked Keith.

  “Just about all the men who’d been surveying in the boats.”

  “Oh dear, oh dear,” said Wiki. “Anyone in charge?”

  “Lieutenant Craven.”

  My God, Wiki thought. He wondered what Captain Wilkes would do about it. While drunkenness was a flogging offense, he thought that surely even the impetuous commodore would hesitate to string his flag lieutenant to the grating.

  Then he asked, “Was there any excuse for this party, or did it just happen out of the blue?”

  “Harden told them that H.M.S. Beagle had already surveyed the shoals, and so they were drowning their sorrows while they enjoyed a first-rate grumble about the waste of energy and effort.”

  So Harden had spared no time in making trouble in the fleet, Wiki mused, and felt more uneasy than ever. He said, “That Harden worries me badly.”

  Forsythe asked, “Why?”

  “Do you remember the time we rescued that gang of sealers whose ship was sinking, and carried them on the Swallow to the Vin?”

  “Very well indeed,” said Keith happily. “Just as I remember their foul plot to take over the brig.”

  “Take the Swallow?” Forsythe exclaimed. “This is the first I’ve heard of this!”

  “One of our men came to Captain Rochester, and revealed that our passengers were plotting to seize the ship.”

  “Why didn’t you report it?”

  “Because we foiled them, Mr. Forsythe—the pirating never happened! We tricked them into collecting together in the foc’sle, and then we nailed up the hatch, and we didn’t allow them to stumble out until we were up with the Vin.”

  Forsythe’s eyebrows shot up. “So you didn’t tell Wilkes—but weren’t you worried the string-shanked buggers would have the sauce to complain?”

  “Never even thought of it,” Keith confessed. “And they didn’t, anyway—which proves that their intentions were foul, sir.”

  “The point of this,” interrupted Wiki, losing patience, “is that they’ve been spread about the fleet ever since Captain Wilkes shipped them, which meant they couldn’t plot trouble together. However, they are now back in a group—with Harden at their head. A boat called at the Osprey while I was there—with Harden in charge, and five of the sealers as oarsmen. It turned out he’d come to pick up Boyd and Folger—so he’s got seven, all in one boat!”

  Forsythe said thoughtfully, “What the hell for, I wonder?”

  “Very good question,” said Wiki. He looked around to make sure they weren’t overheard, and then said, “According to the gauchos, after Harden jumped ship in Buenos Aires, he joined the de Rosas army in the war against Brazil. Not long after that, he incited mutiny, starting a riot in which two men were killed, for which he was brutally flogged. He came to the Río Negro, where he has been organizing a revolution to topple General de Rosas, as he now regards him as his mortal enemy.”

  “Then why the hell did he join the expedition?” Forsythe demanded. “If he’s got such a grand mission for revolution, why would he want to leave the Río Negro?”

  Wiki hesitated, because this was a very good point. However, he said, “Personally, I’d like to know why he’s deliberately gathered up the sealers—who also have a reputation for mutiny.”

  “And you’re planning to talk to Wilkes about this Harden and the sealers?”

  “I am,” Wiki admitted.

  “Then you have to be bloody crazy,” Forsythe said flatly. “If I was you, I’d keep my mouth buttoned up tight on the subject, because you’ve got enough on your plate already, what with that bloody ridiculous theory that the killer stayed behind to steal the deed of sale, even though the bloody schooner was gone. Don’t you realize what a load of trouble you’re in? Not only did you let yourself be requisitioned by a civilian—and a stinking spouterman, at that!—but I hear that Ringgold’s reported you for disobeying orders. And I’d rig up a lot more proper than you was this afternoon, too. Try to look less like a bloody disgrace.”

  “I’m going to rig out in my absolute best,” Wiki obediently assured him.

  “And do something about your goddamned hair, too.”

  “Aye, sir,” said Wiki, thinking that Forsythe sounded more like a proper first lieutenant with every word he uttered.

  Eleven

  January 30, 1839

  It was dawn on the brig Swallow, and Wiki was sitting cross-legged on the forecastle deck while his Polynesian seaman friend Sua hunkered down behind him. The big Samoan was plying Wiki’s ornately carved whalebone comb, straightening out his curls until he had them trapped in one massive hand, ready to draw the ends through a small wooden ring—a tricky job, because Wiki’s hair was too short to be easily passed through the hole. The way it tugged and snagged, it felt to Wiki, who was wincing and grunting, as if Sua were doing it one strand at a time.

  “Kaua e tangi,” soothed Sua in Maori, adding in English, “Poor baby, don’t cry. I thought you was a brave and stalwart warrior.”

  Wiki winced again, and muttered, “It’s the Yankee half that’s hurting.”

  Tana, who was leaning on the windlass, watching, laughed.

  Wiki said, “What would you say if I told you that there is a scientific with the expedition who reckons that the Pacific was settled by people from Malaya?”

  Having a native interest in maps and charts, Tana and Sua had an exact idea of the whereabouts of Malaya. Tana said, “Where did he get that strange idea?”

  “He tried to tell me that those Malays sailed from the west to the east, settling the islands one after another. Fiji and Samoa came first, and after that they kept on eastward, spreading out as they went, and are the ancestors of all the Pasifika people.”

  Sua said in a tone of utter disgust, “Malays? Our ancestors?”

  Tana laughed again. “Samoans have always been in Samoa,” he said.

  Surprised, Wiki turned his head, even though it hurt when Sua yanked back. “You Samoans don’t have traditions of voyaging ancestors?”

  “Nope. The great god Tagaloa lived all alone in an empty expanse until a rock jumped up out of nothingness, and he split up this rock into all different kinds of rock, and made the earth and the sea, water, and the sky with its stars and clouds. He made night and day, and created islands for the people. That’s where we’ve lived ever since. Except,” Tana added, “for sailing out to conquer. If there were any voyagers at all, they must have come from Samoa. They didn’t go there.”

  “We have voyager ancestors,” said Wiki, adding very firmly, “But they came to New Zealand from the east, and definitely not Samoa.”

  “But this fellow says you’re wrong, that Samoans are your ancestors, and he’s a scientific, and so he must be right,” Sua jocularly decided. He stood up, the job of fixing Wiki’s hair finished. “You should show us proper respect,” he advised.

  “That’s right,” said Tana, grinning more widely than ever.

  Wiki rose to his feet, too, feeling quite light-headed, his hair tightly confined in the little topk
not, and jabbed into place with the comb. He also felt miffed, because his Samoan friends had refused to take his concerns seriously, and so he stalked off after the briefest of thanks, while they enjoyed another laugh behind his back.

  Wiki’s mood was shared by just about everyone else on board the Swallow. The rest of the sailors, who were perched around on spare spars and the topgallant foredeck, were wearing thoroughly disgruntled expressions. It was because of today’s breakfast, which had turned out to be different from the delicious repast they had so confidently expected. The plain fact of the matter was that the crew of the brig had become spoiled by Robert Festin’s cooking. The lobscouse last night had been relished by all, and while they had eaten greedily, they had hoped—indeed, assumed—that there would be enough of it to be served up for breakfast, as well.

  Instead, however, Festin had discovered the Swallow’s keg of sauerkraut. Placed on board in Norfolk, Virginia, when the brig had been provisioned for the long voyage, the sauerkraut had been intended as a healthy preventive of scurvy, the scourge of seamen far out at sea. Instead, it had been stealthily hidden in the darkest corner of the hold, and moved to an even more secret place whenever a stray ray of daylight threatened to reveal its presence. When Festin had been overhauling some bags of flour, however, he had come across the keg, and now the unmistakable stench of warm pickled cabbage wafted all about the decks.

  The sailors, Wiki observed, were staring at their untouched tin plates and nibbling hard bread. By their expressions, they could all think of a better place to put the sauerkraut than within their vitals, but throwing food overboard was a flogging offense, and Forsythe, who was in charge of the deck, was in a flogging mood, having brooded all night about missing out on a spree.

  When Wiki descended to the saloon, it was to find a big bowl of sauerkraut in the middle of the table, along with a plate of ship’s hard bread. This was just as anticipated, the crew being served exactly the same as their captain and officers. This was something that Rochester was able to ensure, because he paid for much of the ship’s provisioning out of his personal funds—though he was unlikely to shell out for pickled cabbage.

  Wiki sat down on his bench at the bottom of the table, poured himself a mug of coffee, and contemplated the repast. George Rochester was staring at the basin just as thoughtfully, his plate still empty before him.

  He looked up and said, “How are the men taking it?”

  “Badly,” said Wiki.

  Stoker came into the saloon, and said with an eloquent sniff, “The great Captain Cook set great store by sauerkraut, sir.”

  As the aftergang was already aware, the steward was a great admirer of the famous explorer. Rochester asked, “So how did Cook get his men to eat it?”

  “Ah, sir, he was a crafty cove, a master who knew his people well. Captain Cook decreed that sauerkraut should be a privilege reserved for the cabin table alone, and his officers cooperated by eating it with relish. Within a week the people was threatening mutiny if they could not have their regular ration, too.”

  “I see,” said George, taking the hint. With a great sigh, he scooped a couple of spoonsful onto his plate. While he was stirring it around with his fork, building up courage, Midshipman Keith arrived with a crash on the larboard bench.

  He looked brightly at the basin of sauerkraut, and said, “What’s it like, sir?”

  Rochester silently filled his mouth. It was impossible to tell from his expression what he thought. Keith watched him with his head on one side, rather resembling a robin, and then shrugged and helped himself.

  There was perfect silence as the young man chewed. Then he swallowed, smiled widely, revealing several yellow shreds stuck in his teeth, and said, “It’s good!”

  Wiki still felt suspicious. Constant Keith ate anything that didn’t have to be nailed down first, and kept hard bread under his pillow. However, he took a forkful—and it was good, the taste a vast improvement on its appearance. Miraculously, there was preserved apple in it, and a faint tang of molasses, along with a dash of aromatic vinegar, and a hint of carraway. Festin, as usual, had not let them down.

  It was then that they heard a warning cry from aloft, and a thump as a boat touched the side of the brig. Rochester put down his fork, but before he had a chance to get to the companionway their visitor came down the stairs without waiting for an invitation. Buttoned boots appeared in the rectangle of light at the top of the companionway, followed by short legs in stockings and tight breeches, and then a stout body, surmounted by a flushed, smug face.

  Rochester leaned back in his chair. “Lawrence J. Smith,” he stated without a smile. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

  “I bear a message from Captain Wilkes,” Smith pronounced. He rubbed his hands together, beaming, and said, “So I thought I would join you for breakfast.”

  It was then that he looked at the table. Never had Wiki seen a man’s face fall so fast. Lieutenant Smith exclaimed, “Sauerkraut?”

  “It’s actually quite—” Midshipman Keith blurted out, but subsided with a squeak as George kicked him under the table.

  Smith hadn’t even noticed. Instead, he expostulated, “But pickled cabbage is not supposed to be served to the officers! Sauerkraut should be reserved for the men—to preserve their health, and to—to keep their internal systems in order.”

  “Like the great Captain Cook, we thought we should lead by example,” said George blandly. “You’ll have some?”

  “I don’t think so, thank you.” The lieutenant sat down, however, and reached for a mug and the coffeepot. Then he called out for the steward and demanded cake, but to no avail, as Stoker expressionlessly denied having any on board, before obdurately heading back into his pantry.

  “This is ridiculous,” Smith complained. “According to Captain Wilkes’s strict instructions, every captain is to extend the fullest hospitality to the officers of the other ships of the expedition fleet. He considers it absolutely necessary that every man should feel as much at home on another vessel as he would on his own. The intention is to create and encourage a feeling of harmony in the squadron, as if it were comprised of just a single crew instead of several—but I assure you that on the other ships no officer would be offered food that was intended for the common men.”

  George paused to make sure the pompous little prawn had finished, and then said, “You have a message?”

  “Captain Wilkes asked me to remind Wiremu to arrive on time, and he wants to see you, too.”

  Wiremu. Wiki winced. He had first encountered this pretentious character at the age of twelve, just after his father had carried him to Salem. Lawrence J. Smith had called at the house, as he regarded himself as one of Captain Coffin’s friends, and upon being introduced to Wiki, whom he regarded as interestingly exotic, had taken it upon himself to ask many offensively personal questions. Finding out that the Maori version of Wiki’s American name, William, was Wiremu, he had insisted on employing it ever since, much to Wiki’s irritation.

  Now, as usual, Wiki did his best to ignore it. It was Rochester who answered, saying, “Captain Wilkes wants to see me? But why?”

  “He wishes to extend felicitations.” Smith didn’t offer congratulations himself, Wiki noticed. Instead, after delicately sipping fragrant coffee, he became quite animated, saying, “Isn’t it wonderful how we find valuable additions to our complement on the most farflung and desolate shores?”

  George blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Those sealers I rescued at Shark Island, for instance.”

  “As I remember,” George said coldly, “I was the one who rescued them from their sinking ship, and you were the one who ordered me to carry them to the fleet—and that in spite of my strongest protests, which were confirmed when they gave me a great deal of trouble on passage. I quite honestly did not consider them fit recruits for the expedition.”

  “But they are seamen of vast experience! They will be of inestimable benefit when we sail in high southern latitudes,
” Smith assured him with a superior air, before lapsing into reflection again. “And then there was that truly outstanding cook, Festin—what a pity he left to get married! And now there is this pilot,” he added.

  “You mean Harden?”

  “Of course I mean the unfortunate Harden!”

  Wiki exclaimed, “I’d like to know why he’s been given five of the sealers as his boat’s crew! When I saw him last night, he was taking on two more—a total of seven! I thought they were supposed to be spread about the fleet?”

  “So they were—but now that the last leg of the passage to Cape Horn is nigh, it is only logical that these experts should be assembled as a group. When I talked this over with Captain Wilkes, we were in perfect agreement. And the unfortunate Harden has been given a boat, so that he can lend his expertise to the survey.”

  George interrupted, “Why did you call him unfortunate?”

  “Because it is the appropriate word! General de Rosas treated him with infamous barbarity! Not only did the de Rosas army sweep him out of prison, where he had most unjustly been incarcerated for desertion from his ship, but over the next two years they stationed him at every godforsaken post that exists between Buenos Aires and the Río Negro.”

  Wiki stared at him, his mug of coffee halted halfway to his lips. Despite what he had said to Forsythe and Keith, he had harbored the hope that what Bernantio had told him about Harden’s mutinous and murderous past was mere gossip. At this confirmation that Harden had definitely been in the de Rosas army, he was struck with foreboding again.

  “In particular,” Lieutenant Smith gushed on unheedingly, “he was assigned to the Bahía Blanca—a most desolate terrain, where the coast is choked with fetid salt marshes, and plagued with mosquitoes and similar ugly reptiles. According to Harden, the garrison there was squalid indeed, manned almost entirely by a ragged mob of the rascally Argentinian gypsies they call gauchos—common desperadoes! He eventually escaped, to eke out a living on the Río Negro—but luckily he has a naturally retentive mind for what he viewed while on patrol.”