Deadly Shoals

by Joan Druett

  Losing patience, Stackpole prompted, “The date. And bear in mind that Captain Hallett passed away on Sunday, 13 January.”

  Wiki read the date on the deed of sale. Unlike the signature, it was perfectly clear: January 14, 1839. He looked at Stackpole in astonishment, and the whaling master nodded sagely back.

  When he was supposed to have signed his schooner away, Captain Hallett had been cold in his grave for twenty-four hours.

  Fourteen

  January 31, 1839

  Most unusually, Wiki did not wake with the ringing of eight bells at midnight, though he had fully intended to go up to deck and join his father as he took over at the start of the middle watch. He felt it was important to have a talk and try to settle their differences, and naturally had chosen a time when Mr. Seward could be guaranteed to be heading off for his bunk, but because he overslept it never happened.

  As Wiki ruefully meditated later, he had spent too many months as a civilian with the expedition fleet, where he had no deck responsibilities. The lack of noise and activity had played its part as well, because though the brigantine was still rolling steadily they were going nowhere, and there were no sounds of orders being given. When he finally ran up the companionway stairs to the deck, the bell was ringing seven times—he had slept in as late as three-thirty in the morning.

  The fog was as thick as ever. Captain Coffin was standing on the weather side of the poop, and didn’t notice Wiki’s arrival. The sailor assigned to the post of lookout on the foredeck droned in the time-old fashion, “Al-l-l’s w-e-l-l,” but it did not feel to Wiki as if all were well, at all. The mist hung in dense curtains, clinging close to the surface of the dark sea, which heaved and shimmered, beset by heavy currents.

  Wiki shinnied up the foremast, and had to go as far as the topgallant crosstrees before he could look over the fog heads. Against the graying sky to the northwest he could just discern the tips of masts, and realized that the Peacock and Vincennes lay much closer to the brigantine than he had imagined. Because of the strong landward current, the Osprey had drifted farther toward the fleet.

  The situation was fraught with danger. The brigantine was still to oceanward of the estuary, so was lying directly between the big expedition ships and the open sea. If the long-threatened pampero arrived, Captain Wilkes would signal the captains to slip their cables and clear the land under a press of sail, and there was an awful likelihood that the ships would blunder into the unseen Osprey. No one would be keeping a lookout for her, being under the impression that the brigantine had made her departure long since.

  Yet it was impossible to sail out of danger. Heaped clouds were boiling over the landward horizon, but the air was utterly still. The Osprey had her jib out, and all square sail set on the foremast, while the massive fore-and-aft mainsail was set on the aftermast, too. None of it was working, however, because the canvas sagged like wet laundry on a line.

  Then, all at once, there was a flutter in the weather leech of the foretopsail. Wiki skidded back to deck in a hurry, and approached the quarterdeck.

  Captain Coffin had seen it. He snapped at the boatswain, “Call all hands, then get in the royal.”

  Impelled by the boatswain’s bellowed orders, seamen dashed out of the forecastle and ran to their stations. Halyards were slackened, and then the royal was hauled up to the yard with hearty pulling at clewlines and buntlines, until the canvas hung there in bags. Two of the cadets swung aloft to furl it by passing gaskets around it, tying it up tight to the spar.

  Thunder rumbled, almost drowning out the sound of Mr. Seward’s bootsteps as he hurriedly arrived on the afterdeck. Captain Coffin glanced at him, nodded, and said, “We’ll get the t’gallant in, mister, and the tops’l after that.”

  The mate’s responsive shouts triggered still more commotion. Seamen clambered up the shrouds, and spread out on the topgallant yard. Then they were bent far over the spar, feet braced wide apart on the footropes, grappling with the canvas, hauling it up by sheer force. Before they could finish the job, however, the squall arrived in a mighty blast, screaming like a banshee from the totally unexpected southwest, directly ahead, roaring upon them to attack the ship full-face.

  Within instants the jib was gone, blown to ribbons, while the men on the yard let go of the topgallant, grabbing frantically instead for a secure hold. The released canvas instantly tore to fragments that flickered away on the gale like panicked birds. The heavy forecourse and deep topsail, which were still fully set, remained intact, however—which made the situation worse. Instead of breaking up they slammed back against the masts, taking the whole weight of the wind on their forward surfaces, and putting a gigantic strain on the rigging. The Osprey lurched, caught aback. Another great gust, and the brig was abruptly pelted with hard spots of rain.

  Something had to be set forward to get the Osprey to pay her head off and bring her round. Wiki heard Mr. Seward roar, “Get the foretopmast stays’l on her—quick, for your lives!”

  “Aye, sir!” It was a disembodied shout.

  There were not enough hands on the foredeck to do the job. The mate led the dash forward, Captain Coffin close behind him, both slipping and stumbling as the brigantine bucked unhappily. The apprentice at the wheel, abruptly abandoned, cried desperately at their retreating backs, “She won’t take no notice of the helm, sir; she won’t respond!”

  Well, of course she wouldn’t, thought Wiki. The brig had been becalmed for hours, with no way on. Instead of joining his father and the mate, he ran to the afterdeck to stop the boy from struggling with the wheel. The rudder was designed to turn the ship by using the pressure of the water, but without forward or sternward impetus there was nothing for it to grip. Unless he could take advantage of the pressure of the gale on the sails that were blowing hard aback against the masts, they were at the mercy of the gathering storm.

  There was another grave danger lurking in the fog. Wiki’s mind was moving fast, picturing the ships of the fleet slipping their cables and flying off on the breast of the storm to get an offing well away from the land—while the invisible Osprey wallowed directly between them and the open sea. The sky slammed again as thunder bellowed right above their heads, and the wind lashed even harder. All about the decks and rigging the men snatched at handholds to steady themselves against the assault. When Wiki looked over his shoulder, the little gang led by Captain Coffin and his mate kept doggedly on, clambering onto the forecastle head one by one, only to be shoved back by a savage gust.

  The poop was now manned only by the six cadets. Wiki took over the wheel, and snapped, “Get the mains’l in—now!” Six uncomprehending faces gaped dumbly. “Now!” he repeated, in a voice so remarkably like his father’s that they ran to the sheets without stopping for questions. Dimly, he realized that they were used to him being the steersman already, because he had steered the whaleboat into the Río Negro, and so it was easier for them to obey orders given by the captain’s son.

  They hauled manfully, while he shouted at them. For a horrible moment it looked as if the upper spar would jam. Then, miraculously Captain Stackpole arrived, half dressed from his bed, joined by his six boat’s crew, who streamed out of the steerage looking equally disheveled. The whaling master hauled up his trousers as he came, snapping his braces over his shoulders at the same instant that he snapped out an order to one of his men. The seaman darted up the shrouds, clambered onto the innermost end of the gaff, and jumped vigorously up and down to get it going.

  Down came the gaff at the run, folding the sail on the boom as it went, and abruptly the mainmast was naked. Miraculously, the whaleman had jumped safely out of the way. There was a howl of rage from the forecastle head, but Wiki, at the wheel, ignored it.

  His hands tested the spokes as the gale, still blowing from dead ahead, exerted its force on the two big square sails on the foremast. He felt the Osprey stagger, on the verge of luffing up into the wind. As he steadied the wheel, keeping the wind on the forward surfaces of the big sails, she b
egan to gather way, instead—only sailing backward instead of forward, and achieving a quite remarkable speed.

  There was a shriek of rage as someone on the bow discerned the stream of bubbles she left behind, and the gang realized what was happening. Wiki ignored it. Instead, he felt delighted with the old Osprey, because she steered as well in the reverse direction as most ships did going in the proper direction. Another furious yell from the foredeck—and then everyone silenced in utter horror as a tall ship materialized from the murk, a shockingly short distance in front of their retreating bow.

  The Vincennes—under storm sail, so close that it seemed Mr. Seward, frozen on the forecastle head, could have tossed a biscuit on board of her. For a sickening moment she swerved straight toward the Osprey, as if determined to run her down. Then she righted, swung back the other way, and went thundering across their bows, her forefoot crashing down on the exact spot where the brigantine had been bare minutes before.

  Her wash deluged the forecastle head, earning Wiki a shake of a fist in his direction. Then the gang resumed their battle with the foretopmast staysail, which snapped and fought like a wild beast as the wind found the tunnel of canvas and streamed into it. Inch by cautious inch, they began to haul. The head of the sail seemed to crawl along the stay. It seemed a long moment before a distant shout of triumph heralded that the sail was fully extended.

  Wiki snapped a quick order to set the aftersail again. It was a hard, heavy job, but six lusty boys plus six brawny whalemen made short work of it, directed by Captain Stackpole, who chanted like a coasterman to keep rhythm as they hauled. Up the mast the gaff smoothly ran, horizontal to the deck at first, and then peaked up to an angle.

  Captain Coffin was sprinting along the deck, lurching from side to side with the violent pitching, shouting as he came. Wiki didn’t need the instructions. Down went the helm, the seamen on the foredeck eased off the sheets, and the brigantine flew up into the wind.

  The square sails on the foremast shook and shivered, and then flapped violently, while the mainsail boom swung around. For a long, tense moment, the Osprey hung between conflicting forces. Would she fall off, and drift to leeward before they could seize control again? The brigantine was old, but gallant—she hardly hesitated. Round the foreyards came, the canvas bellied taut, and she was running forward, with plenty of searoom, and no ships to blunder into their path. Within moments, she had picked up a tearing pace. The wind was still terrific; the topgallant and the jib were ruined, but no one was gravely hurt, and there was no damage to the rigging.

  Wiki, feeling pleased with his feat of saving the Osprey from certain doom, handed over the wheel to the cadet, who was still shaking visibly with excitement and fear. Then he saw that Mr. Seward was staring imperatively in his direction. With a jerk of one thumb the mate beckoned him over to the weather side of the afterdeck, and Wiki saw that his expression was taut with fury. It was at that moment that he realized that he had committed the unthinkable—he had taken charge of another man’s ship without permission. In the navy, he probably would have been hanged.

  Then he was forced to wait. The mate said nothing for a couple of moments, instead taking his pipe out of his jacket pocket and blowing through the stem several times to make sure it was clear, before filling the tiny bowl with slow, deliberate movements. As Wiki fought down the impulse to shift from one foot to the other, Mr. Seward lit one of the lucifer matches called “fusees,” favored by seamen because they burned in the dampest wind, and puffed at the little flame until he had the pipe drawing to his satisfaction. The red light reflected on his taut, fine-boned face.

  After the usual struggle to extinguish the match, the mate finally nailed Wiki with a pale green stare. With the same deliberation with which he had filled and lit his pipe, he embarked on a long, detailed opinion of Wiki’s past and pedigree. It could have been amusing, Wiki meditated, considering that his father, standing above them on the poop, was listening to his son’s ancestry being so brutally dissected. However, Captain Coffin kept silent, which was not at all unexpected. From his own experience, Wiki knew that it was impossible for a shipmaster to undermine an officer’s authority by checking him in front of the crew, not to mention a crowd of visitors. Additionally, Wiki recognized the icy glint under his half-lowered eyelid, and knew that he was as furious as his mate.

  Just as Mr. Seward ran out of imagination and words, to Wiki’s surprise Captain Stackpole strolled up, his attitude relaxed. “Jehovah, that was close,” he remarked. “I couldn’t make up my mind if we was going to be crushed by some great ship, or go over on our beam ends with the next big gust. Caught aback, and damn near run afoul, by God! Either could have been the end of us, but somehow we eluded both. Was it luck that saved us?” he asked himself, and answered with a shake of the head. “No, by damn, I think it was uncommon fine seamanship.”

  He paused ruminatively, while everyone stared dumbstruck, the silence filled only by the creak of planking, the whine of the wind in the rigging, and the rushing sea. “Reminded me of a time I was first mate of a Brazil Banks whaler,” he went on comfortably. “The old Potosi, it was, and Charley Griffing was the captain. Do you know him?” he inquired of Wiki. “Hails from Greenport, Long Island. Currently in command of the Franklin, or so I heard.”

  Wiki silently shook his head.

  “Amazed I haven’t told you this yarn before,” Captain Stackpole went on, with every appearance of enjoying himself. “On account of it happened on this very same coast. We was forced to call into a miserable little Brazilian port, being low on fresh water, not to mention needing a doctor, the yellow fever having broken out in the foc’sle. A helluva anchorage to enter, the only entrance being a narrow channel with a reef on one side with an old wreck stuck to it, and a steep-to cliff on the other. Two miles long, that channel was, leading up to a nice little harbor with a wharf and a couple of sheds. Can’t remember the name of the place, but maybe you know it?”

  Again, Wiki shook his head.

  “Well, we sailed halfway up that narrow channel with no incident. Then a tide-rip we didn’t know about struck us of a sudden, and before we knew it we was set head-on for the reef. And, my God, we was going at quite a clip at the time, a brisk onshore wind being with us. I can still remember that wreck standing up out of the rocks and rising higher as we got closer, just like she was beckoning us to a similar doom. Tell the truth, my blood turns to ice just to think of it.”

  The whaling master paused, his eyes narrowed in a reflective squint, while no one about the deck said a word. Then he said, “The old man didn’t turn a hair, simply hollered for us to let the lee braces rip and bring her aback—and damn, did we rush to it. I remember how those yards swung for the backstays like of their own accord. Then there was just a little hesitation, and the faintest jerk as the old Potosi gathered sternway. Backward we sailed, all the way out of that channel and into the open sea, in the most beautiful sternboard ever seen on that coast. They’re still talking about it there, I warrant.”

  The cadets were mesmerized by the tale, Wiki saw. He glanced at the mate to see how he was taking it, expecting to see reinvigorated rage. However, Alf Seward’s back was turned toward him, all his attention on Captain Coffin, whose face had gone blank. As Wiki watched, the mate lifted his hand in an eloquent little gesture of regret. Now that someone had pointed out that the crime was justified by the emergency, he was silently apologizing to Captain Coffin for having humiliated his son so publicly.

  Something about the way that hand was raised … Wiki blinked, unable to believe what he was seeing. Belatedly, he realized that Stackpole was waiting for some kind of comment, and said mechanically, “So Captain Griffing saved his ship?”

  “Aye. Piled her up on the rocks at the Falklands about four years after that,” Captain Stackpole said cheerfully, “but he sure saved her at the time with that sternboard. And, because it saved our ship and our lives, I’ve been uncommon appreciative of that kind of seamanship, ever since. Remember t
hat offer I made you to ship with me as second mate?” he inquired. “Well, I’ll change it to first mate, by God, once I’ve got quit of the one I’ve got. What do you reckon about that?”

  For a moment Wiki didn’t respond, because he was still watching Mr. Seward, and thinking that he now knew exactly why the mate of the Osprey behaved the way he did, and why his father had been so unwelcoming, too. It was hard not to shake his head in disgust with himself that he had taken so long to see the obvious.

  Then he realized that Captain Stackpole was waiting for an answer, and had to struggle to remember what the whaling master had said. “I think we have other matters to talk over,” he managed at last.

  “Then we’ll have a little chat,” Stackpole said heartily, leading him away.

  The moment they were safely out of earshot, however, his expression changed, and he growled, “You had every excuse just now, your father having lost his head and abandoned his post, but I have to warn you, boy, that if you ever take over the quarterdeck of my ship without permission, I’ll knock your head off your shoulders so quick you won’t have time to know what’s happening. Understood? Good. Now then, what do you reckon?”

  Wiki took a deep breath. “I reckon we should get that deed of sale over to Captain Wilkes.”

  “The way the Vincennes was flying off to the open sea, I reckon we’ll find the old Trojan first,” said Stackpole, and guffawed.

  It was a prediction that proved well off the mark. An hour later a sail was raised—but it was not the whaler Trojan. Instead, it was the New York sealer Athenian.

  Fifteen

  Wiki was one of the first on board the Osprey to spy the sealing brig, because he was on the topgallant yard helping to bend on a new sail, to replace the one that had torn to shreds. Captain Coffin had graciously assented when Captain Stackpole had offered his boat’s crew to help out with the work, and Wiki had climbed aloft without bothering to ask permission. It wasn’t an easy job, because the wind was still strong and gusty, and the brigantine was jolting about madly on the lumpy sea, but it made a very pleasant change, because the two Polynesian whalemen from Stackpole’s boat’s crew were on either side of him.