Deadly Shoals

by Joan Druett

  “Vultures,” said Wiki, answering the second question, and described the trek past the salinas, the gruesome discovery of the exposed, picked skull at the foot of the Gualichú tree, and the uncovering of the rest of the corpse in the salt beneath.

  Captain Wilkes was frowning, but not with pain or anger—indeed, he seemed to have forgotten his headache. He said, “That’s a very strange place to bury a murdered man. It’s as if the killer wanted him to be found.”

  “But we would never have found him if Adams hadn’t convulsed just before he died so that his head came up out of the salt,” Wiki objected.

  “Is that what you think happened? That he convulsed?” And, to Wiki’s amazement, Captain Wilkes abandoned dignity and stretched his long body on the deck. Lying down, he said, “He was stabbed in the chest—here?”

  The commodore’s finger pointed at a spot six inches above his middle. Wiki nodded, and Captain Wilkes clenched his fist, brought it down, slammed himself in the rib cage, and reared up his head. For a moment, he brought back the sight of the dead man’s arched torso so vividly that gooseflesh chilled on the back of Wiki’s neck.

  He said rather weakly, “Aye, sir.” After a second’s thought, he added, “He had also been shot in the head—with a rifle, I think. My impression was that he reared up out of the salt in the last spasm of death just as the killer was turning away, and the murderer was so shocked that he shot him. Then, because he was spooked, he galloped off without reburying the head.”

  “Really?” Captain Wilkes remained in that position a moment, staring awkwardly at Wiki from above his chest. Then he rose to his feet with more agility than Wiki would have expected, remarking, “Confoundedly uncomfortable.” Seating himself in one of the chart chairs, he picked up a pencil and tapped it rhythmically on the top of the desk, deep in thought. A healthy pink had crept into his cheeks.

  “How long is it before rigor mortis sets in, do you know?” he asked.

  Wiki thought back to his conversation with Dr. Ducatel while they were studying the corpse of the clerk, but only came up with the memory of being told that rigor mortis took three or four days to dissipate. He confessed, “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t? What kind of sheriff’s deputy are you?” However, Captain Wilkes’s tone was relatively mild. He went to the doors, opened one, stuck his head out, and yelled for Dr. Fox, who came at the run. “How soon after death does rigor mortis set in?” he demanded.

  The surgeon looked around rather wildly, and then stuttered, “F-five to t-ten hours, sir.” Swallowing, he said, “May I inquire why you ask?”

  “No, you can’t,” Captain Wilkes snapped, and Dr. Fox looked around again, took the hint, and went away. As soon as the door clicked shut, Captain Wilkes turned to Wiki and said, “So why didn’t the shot knock the head back into the grave?”

  Wiki had anticipated the question, so said at once, “The salt had sifted down into the hole, and formed a sort of pillow.”

  “Hm,” said the commodore. “I suppose that makes sense.” Then he asked, “What kind of man was this storekeeper?”

  “Caleb Adams? Short and wiry.” Wiki itemized what the dead man had been wearing, including the amulet about his neck, and then said, “It’s really impossible to tell what his face was like before the vultures got at him.”

  “I meant, what kind of man was he?”

  “I don’t know,” Wiki replied, flustered. “I’d never been up the Río Negro before; I’d never met him. Captain Stackpole—”

  “Captain Stackpole knew him well?”

  “According to the store’s books, Captain Stackpole had done a lot of business with him over the past few years. He had no doubt about the identity of the body, even though the face was gone.”

  “You went through the store’s books—to track past transactions?”

  “That’s how I found the bill of sale for the schooner.” Wiki described finding the deed in the back of the ledger, going on to repeat what Dr. Ducatel had told them about the death of the seller, Captain Hallett, at the surgeon’s own ranch.

  “Then, when Captain Stackpole wanted to know what had happened to his bank draft after Hallett died,” he continued, “Dr. Ducatel became angry, and demanded to see the deed as proof that the sale had really happened, so we went back to the store. It was locked, but we used Dr. Ducatel’s key to gain entrance—and found the body of Adams’s clerk.”

  “Another body?” exclaimed Wilkes, looking very animated indeed.

  “Aye, sir. When we found him he’d been dead only about thirty-six hours—or so Dr. Ducatel said. It seems evident that he was killed by the same man who killed the storekeeper up by the salinas, though, because the deed of sale had gone—and he’d been stabbed to death, just like Adams.”

  “But no salty grave—and no shot in the head?”

  Captain Wilkes was actually grinning with enjoyment. Wiki wondered if he should smile back, but decided against it, silently shaking his head, instead. The commodore lapsed into thought again, this time rolling the pencil between his fingers. Then he abruptly turned to Captain Coffin. “You called on board the Trojan last night, I believe. Where was she headed?”

  Captain Coffin looked surprised at the question, but answered readily enough. “Captain Stackpole was heading south—after whales, I thought, though he might be looking for his missing schooner. He wasn’t in any particular hurry. She was under easy sail while they finished boiling out their blubber.”

  Wilkes nodded decisively. “Take Wiki on board the Osprey and go after him.”

  “What?” Captain Coffin stared. To Wiki’s surprise, he saw consternation in his father’s expression. He expostulated, “How do you know I will find him?”

  “If you can navigate your way about Fijian lagoons, then surely it will be a simple matter to find a whaling ship. When you speak to Captain Stackpole, tell him to write me an affidavit. Once I have it in hand, I can seize the Grim Reaper in his name if we come across her—and assure him that I will be using it to report the piracy to every man-of-war I meet. And you, sir,” Captain Wilkes barked at Wiki, swinging round on him. “When you talk to Captain Stackpole, find out a damn sight more about Adams than you appear to know right now! What kind of sheriff’s deputy do you call yourself, when you know so little about the victim? Surely the first job of any investigation is to find out what enemies he had, and what reason anyone would have to kill him?”

  Wiki was silent, feeling extremely hard done by, wondering how Captain Wilkes would have behaved in the same circumstances. However, Wilkes didn’t even notice, saying to Captain Coffin, “We’ll be working on this survey for another three days, so it’ll make good use of the interval while you are waiting for the last specimens to be loaded. But be sure to be back in time, or you’ll be forced to pursue us all the way to Cape Horn!”

  Wiki’s father looked very annoyed at being ordered around in this peremptory fashion, but Captain Wilkes didn’t pay attention to that, either. “Well, off you go,” he said with satisfaction. Then, on a last thought, he observed to Wiki, “That topknot arrangement is an improvement, but still far from ideal. Did you know that I had a deputation from the men complaining about your hair?”

  Wiki said blankly, “Sir?”

  “They say that things have started going wrong ever since you had it cut, and applied to me to order you to grow it again, as quickly as possible.”

  “Good God,” said Wiki. He felt so bemused that it wasn’t until he was back in the Swallow boat that he realized he hadn’t had a chance to talk about Harden and the sealers.

  Twelve

  Back on board the Swallow, Wiki asked George, “Did Captain Wilkes congratulate you on your promotion?”

  Wiki was again in dungarees, and had pulled down his topknot so his hair was comfortably loose. Having thrown a few things into a kit bag, he was ready to head over to the Osprey. As he remembered, George’s face had been quite bland when they had passed each other in the corridor of the afterhouse
of the Vincennes. Now, by contrast, his friend was wearing an evil grin.

  “Smith was right, for once,” he said. “It was indeed to give me warmest felicitations—but not on account of my promotion. Instead, Wilkes congratulated me because no one from the Swallow had joined the jollification on the Porpoise!”

  “I don’t believe it!” Wiki let out a shout of mirth. “How come no one noticed that Constant Keith was there?”

  “If anyone did, they neglected to inform our good commodore, old chap.”

  “I wonder if he realizes his luck.” Wiki shook his head, still enjoying his laugh. Then he sobered. “Did Captain Wilkes tell you he’s going to demote Craven, and appoint someone else in his place?”

  George grimaced. “No, he didn’t, but it’s predictable, I suppose, considering that Craven was one of those making merry. Also, he’s a tarry old sailor who is popular with the men, which has always worked against him. Did Wilkes reveal the name of his replacement?”

  “No—just that he is the next-oldest lieutenant, that they’ve been cronies for years, and that they swung the pendulum together as midshipmen.”

  George stared. Then he said in frozen tones of horror, “Oh, my God. It sounds a lot like…”

  Wiki abruptly had the same terrible thought. “Lawrence J. Smith?”

  Rochester nodded grimly. “Let’s hope we’re wrong,” he said.

  If they were not, it was an appalling prospect. As Wiki headed for deck with his kit bag over his shoulder, he wondered what state the fleet would be in when he arrived back from his jaunt on the Osprey. There’d been changes enough over the days he’d been up the Río Negro, but this promised to be far worse.

  He could see boats plying between the Vincennes, the Peacock, the Flying Fish, the Sea Gull, and the beach, presumably part of the afternoon’s surveying. The Porpoise was lying a long way off, he noticed, undoubtedly with officers on board who were regretting their impulsive hospitality, and nursing their headaches. Though Forsythe’s fog had still not materialized, the weather was more ominous than ever. On the way over to the Osprey, which was now lying at anchor a couple of miles to the southeast of the fleet, Wiki watched the oily roll of the waves, and became absorbed in the low light of the sky, and the dank feel of the chilly air. The clouds were turning from white to dull gray, with a purple glint running along the horizon to the southwest, while the swell was increasing. There was still no wind, but the instinct from years of whaling in treacherous seas told him that a gale was on the way.

  Then the Swallow boat came within hailing distance of the Osprey, and his attention was taken up in admiration of the 200-ton brigantine. Painted gleaming white, with a lot more shiny brass about her than was usually considered modest, she was a very pretty sight. The figurehead—of a fish hawk, naturally—glinted with gilt. The long, tapered spars on the tall foremast were absolutely square, so precisely aligned that it looked as if Mr. Seward had measured them off with his sextant.

  Though her hull was as dainty and fine-lined as a yacht, the brigantine was rigged to withstand China Sea monsoons, with both masts stayed and back-stayed into more than ordinary strength; every inch of her running gear was the best that money could buy. The deep rectangular sails on the foremast—course, topsail, topgallant, and royal, in ascending order—were snowy white, without a single patch in evidence, and the huge fore-and-aft mainsail on the mainmast—the biggest and heaviest sail on the ship, spread between its upper spar, the gaff, and lashed to the boom at its foot—was equally immaculate. As the boat came around the quarter, the low light glinted off the polished tiers of windows in the square stern. Mr. Seward, as George Rochester had described, was more house-proud than the usual first officer of a trader.

  Captain Coffin met Wiki at the rail, looking preoccupied and busy. Instead of introducing him to any of the crew, he led the way to the break of the poop, and opened the door to the companionway. At the bottom, he indicated one of the staterooms that lined the larboard side of the afterhouse corridor, and then, with scarcely a word, he headed back up to deck. It was as if he were in a big hurry. As Wiki stood looking around, he could hear him hollering for Mr. Seward and then issuing orders to make sail.

  The stateroom didn’t offer much in the way of hospitality, either, being small to start with, and cramped even further by bolts of Chinese silk stowed along the bulkheads. Wiki eased past the dunnage to the one piece of furniture, which was a rank of lockers and drawers lipped at the top to make a bed, furnished with a thin mattress, and put down his kit bag, frowning as he wondered about his father’s unwelcoming attitude. He could understand why he might be angry with Captain Wilkes’s peremptory order, but had expected him to have relaxed into his usual jovial and talkative self by the time his son came aboard.

  Watery light glimmered through the square sidelight above the berth, sending reflections rippling over the whitewashed bulkheads as the Osprey wallowed in the heavy swell. Wiki could hear the cadets calling out to each other as they hauled on lines and laid aloft—familiar sounds, though it was nine years since he had last sailed on the Osprey. At the time, he had been just fifteen, and it had been a short voyage to the West Indies, after a freight of sugar and fruit. Within weeks of that last cruise, his father had sailed off on a voyage to the Orient, expecting to come back a year later to find Wiki still at home with his stepmother—Captain Coffin’s legal, childless, Nantucket-bred wife. However, the instant the Osprey had disappeared over the horizon, Mrs. Coffin had packed Wiki off to a college for missionaries in New Hampshire, in an attempt to reform what she considered his wicked native ways. There, he had met George, and after a few months of skipping classes together to hunt the forest with the local Indians, they had absconded entirely, paddling off down the Connecticut River in a birchbark canoe they had built themselves. When Wiki had reappeared in Salem, Mrs. Coffin’s next move had been to send him off to sea on her brother’s whaleship, so that by the time her husband got back home, his illegitimate son was back in the Pacific where she reckoned he belonged.

  Since then, their paths had crossed only occasionally, mostly by accident, and usually in some farflung port. They were always glad to see each other … but, as Wiki mused now, his father had never invited him to join the crew of the Osprey, even when he was currently without a berth. Wiki hadn’t thought much about it in the past, but now he found it odd. For some reason, it seemed, Captain Coffin didn’t want his son on board his ship.

  Then Wiki was distracted by the realization that instead of making way, the Osprey was still sagging uneasily up and over the swells. A rolling thud rang out in the distance—the Vincennes firing a gun to call in her boats. Obviously, Forsythe’s fog was upon them at last. It was impossible to stop himself from heading up the companionway to check on the state of affairs, and so he arrived at the rail just in time to see the ships of the fleet disappear one after another in the flowing mist.

  The far-off Porpoise vanished first. Then the Vincennes faded like a ghost, the Peacock turned into a wraith, and finally the Swallow was lost to view. After that, it was as if the Osprey were floating alone in a shifting gray cloud. Dank moisture clung to the rigging. All the sails were spread, but there was no wind to fill them. Instead, the canvas sheets flopped against the tall masts with the slow pulse of the swell.

  When Wiki leaned back against the rail and craned his neck he could just glimpse the royal sail dangling at the very top of the foremast hamper. Birds swirled and screamed around it, and then flew off, heading toward the land. Every instinct told him that a gale was in the offing—one of the vicious southwesterlies the Argentinians called pampero. The expedition ships, like the Swallow, had used the respite to get their heavy foul-weather sails bent, in preparation for awful weather on the way to Cape Horn and beyond, but he saw with disquiet that while the forecourse, topsail, and mainsail of the brigantine were made of stout foul-weather canvas, the topgallant and royal were light ones, as if the Osprey were halfway through being readied for the subequatorial
trades. Also, if Wilkes should issue an order for the fleet to claw upwind, away from the dangerous lee shore, the brigantine was not far off the path of the expedition ships. The air was as still as death, right now, but Wiki headed anxiously for the quarterdeck.

  Captain Coffin was on the weather side, keeping his balance with one upraised hand in the starboard shrouds, deep in conversation with Mr. Seward. Studying them curiously, Wiki was struck again by the mate’s good looks. With his curly blond hair, high cheekbones, light green eyes, and square, thin-boned jaw, the fellow was rather Scandinavian in appearance, he thought. In his mid-thirties, he was young enough to have some gaiety of spirit, Wiki thought, and remembered that he had an engaging half-grin. However, when Alf Seward heard Wiki’s step and looked up, he certainly didn’t smile. Instead, his expression hardened into hostility.

  Remembering what George had said about Mr. Seward’s possessive, jealous attitude, Wiki wondered if his first mate was the reason his father was so reluctant to have his son on board his ship. Because of the suspicion, his voice was abrupt as he said, “I think a pampero is in the offing.”

  His father frowned. “It’s the wrong time of the year.”

  “I don’t like the weather mix—the drop in temperature, the fog, the heavy swell.”

  Again, the flagship fired a cannon, which echoed flatly in the clinging mist. In the silence that followed, Wiki saw that Mr. Seward was glancing from his face to Captain Coffin’s and back, looking for similarities and differences, no doubt, like everyone else who knew that they were father and son. If he did see a resemblance, he wasn’t happy about it, that was plain. The slender pipestem clenched between his white teeth puffed aggressive little clouds of smoke.

  Then, all at once, the first mate did grin—but it was not a nice smile, at all. “A pampero, you reckon? So d’you think we should take in all sail?” he sardonically asked. “Perhaps, Mr. Coffin, we should house in the jibboom?”