by Joan Druett
The Swallow forecastle held just nine seamen—stalwart fellows, Rochester thought, though he meditated uncomfortably that they were as jaded and dissatisfied as the rest of the expedition’s sailors. In contrast to the officers and scientifics, who were burning with enthusiasm for the adventure ahead, the ordinary navy hands were in a pessimistic mood, one and all being cynically certain that it was their superiors who would reap the high honors, never the humble but patriotic tar. Also, they were tired to death of being kept on call at Norfolk while the politicians and the navy department folk quarreled about the disposition of the expedition. Some had been waiting as long as five years.
But Wiki knew how to take care of himself, George decided, so he said, “I’d be obliged if you would move to the fo’c’sle,” feeling rather more sunny about life. Then he wandered off to his own cabin to luxuriate in the trappings of being a captain, ignore the pile of paperwork that awaited on his desk, and wind all those chronometer clocks.
Wiki took his sea chest down the forecastle ladder and then stood surveying his new situation with his fists propped on his belt. The forecastle, the abode of the common seamen of the ship, was in the bows, underneath the part of the foredeck where the windlass and the cook’s kitchen were set. It was a dark and damp space that smelled of rusty chain and old rope and would be very noisy when the Swallow was smashing her nose through rough seas. She had been a sealer at some stage in her checkered past, deduced Wiki, because this sailors’ dormitory was fitted out with six double tiers of wooden bunks instead of being supplied with hooks for hammocks, navy-style. They were hulking, clumsy affairs, which cast black shadows that shifted in the flickering light from a single, smoky tallow lamp, and from these shadows five hostile pairs of eyes met his. The only reason there were not nine pairs of eyes was that the starboard watch was on deck, on duty.
From his week of trawling the taverns of Norfolk while waiting for the brig to arrive, Wiki knew he was in trouble. For a start, seamen were traditionally slow to accept strangers. Also, morale was low. The notorious waterfront street of the port—known to sailors the world over as the “River of Styx”—might have been thronged with a cosmopolitan lot of all nations mixed up together, eating, drinking, singing, dancing, gambling, quarreling, and fighting; but whatever their race or culture, they were united in their dislike of this expedition. Contrarily insular despite choosing a life spent at sea, the general opinion of these sailors was that it was a scandal that America should be exploring the Pacific when so much of America itself had not been properly looked at yet. And, as everyone knew, a similar expedition that had set out nine years before had failed ignominiously because so many of the sailors had run away it was impossible to sail the ships.
Since then the seamen who had been waiting for another expedition to be pulled together had watched ship after ship tested in the waters off Norfolk and fail the sea trials. The vessels that were finally assembled were no better than the discards, in the general opinion. Compared to great ships of the line like the Constitution, where a lot of them had lived while all this was going on, Vincennes and Peacock were shamefully small. The Peacock might have been painted up to impress lubbers like President Van Buren, but all the varnish in the world could not disguise her wretched condition. Everyone knew that the storeship Relief was a dog, while not only were the Flying Fish and the Sea Gull ridiculously small for a voyage around the world but they had seen rough careers as pilot boats, herding merchantmen from Sandy Hook to New York Harbor. And the Swallow—well, she might be very pretty, but in truth she was nothing better than a pirate.
Worst of all, Commodore Thomas ap Catesby Jones, a hot-tempered but thoroughgoing seaman they had all respected, had resigned the command of the expedition. Then a junior lieutenant had been given the job because no senior officer was willing to take it—a junior lieutenant who was notorious as a martinet. The stories of his harsh treatment were legion. They had all heard about the good young fellows who for the most trivial of reasons had been flogged so hard that the fabric of their shirts and trousers had been beaten into the cruel wounds, so that the victims were forced for weeks to pick threads out of the scars. Now the Swallow men were all stinging from the long-winded slurs on their appearance and their reputation they had been forced to stand and hark to that very afternoon—and they knew who to blame for it, this upstart Kanaka, that’s who. In Portsmouth he had delayed them in an unseemly fashion, first by getting himself arrested for murder and then by bathing himself in the river. Worse still, he was a crony of the captain’s and without a doubt the captain’s spy.
Wiki, who knew exactly what was going through their heads, quenched a sigh as he looked around for an empty wooden bunk. He would vastly prefer a berth that ran fore-and-aft, so he would not be jerked out of bed every time the brig pitched, and one on the top tier so he could be sure of not having a sea boot planted on his sleeping face as some sailor clambered in or out of the bunk above. There was a spare berth that fitted both specifications, but he knew it was the wrong moment to claim it. Instead, he left his sea chest in a corner, went back on deck, and climbed aloft to reeve off some running gear. The reckoning, he estimated, would come in the dogwatch, the time in the early evening when all the hands were off duty.
He was right. He was leaning on the windlass quietly digesting his supper when he was approached by the other Polynesian in the crew, a huge Samoan whose beautifully tattooed thighs were the size of tree trunks. They introduced themselves in the traditional way, in the Samoan language, traded a few insults, and then settled the disagreement with a bout of wrestling, Polynesian fashion. Wiki came off very much the worst but told himself, as he winced every time he turned over in his berth that night, that he had deliberately let the big Samoan win. After that he stood watches like the rest and took up all the ordinary duties of a seaman, too, knowing without a scrap of doubt that his forecastle companions would make his life very difficult indeed if he was not perceived to be pulling his weight. He kept alert, particularly when working in the rigging, knowing that it would only take a stamp on a footrope to send him crashing down to the deck. However, by the time the boat arrived to deliver Tristram T. Stanton to the ship, he felt relaxed enough to join Captain Rochester on the quarterdeck.
The brig was now floating in solitary splendor. The expedition fleet had been delayed by a gale off Chesapeake Bay but had finally got away on the seventeenth, accompanied by a great deal of signal flying and rolling salutes from both ships and shore that had blanketed the harbor with smoke. Because of the emptiness of the anchorage, the boat was in plain view for much of its approach. Wiki could see Tristram Stanton in the stern sheets, his brown hair flopping in the breeze, boxes and bundles packed all around him. More dunnage, to add to the steady stream of crates and boxes that had been coming on board the brig and filling up his erstwhile stateroom, he wryly perceived. Then, somewhat to his consternation, he recognized the burly figure of the sheriff.
“That reminds me of a question I meant to ask you, old boy,” said Rochester thoughtfully, as he lowered his spyglass.
The afternoon light was hard and bright, bouncing off the water. Wiki scowled at Rochester. “What?”
“That duel.”
“What about that duel?”
“You must have appointed a second—you have to have a second in a duel. Or maybe you didn’t know that?”
“Of course I know that,” said Wiki, somewhat snappishly, not enjoying the reminder of his humiliation. The boat was very close now, the headsman reaching out to catch one of the falls that dangled down from the davits. “Jim Powell was in the tavern, too, so I invited him to stand by me.”
“Powell? Not the Powell who came to the Pierce place after a message from Stanton?”
“The same man.”
“But that’s odd! I do think you could’ve chosen better—he’s not the most reliable of men, you know; the whole fleet considers him an infamous liar, as well as a gambler and a drunk. And as your friend,” Roches
ter said reproachfully as the boat clicked against the side of the brig, “I would have expected to have been invited.”
“To be my second?” said Wiki, and laughed. It was a contagious giggle, the characteristic laugh of the Pacific. Rochester often thought that Wiki’s laugh was the one part of his Polynesian side that would never give way to his American half.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, having got over his merriment. “You weren’t available.”
“And neither was Powell,” Rochester pointed out.
“That’s right.” Wiki paused, but there was no time for thought because the boat had been secured, and Stanton and the sheriff were clambering onto the deck. As quick as a cat, Wiki made himself scarce by heading forward.
The sheriff looked exceedingly disgruntled. He turned his head to squint at Wiki, who was keeping a low profile on the foredeck, turned again to glower at Rochester, and said, “I want to speak to that young man.”
“To Mr. Coffin?”
Rochester’s reticent tone earned him a grunt of sardonic laughter. “Yup, that’s the man I mean. He’s quite somethin’, that kernacker friend of yours,” the sheriff went on in candid style. “Looks like jest another black-haired Indian to me, but I had no less than three women come along and knock at my door with an offer to pay bail to get him out of jail—that is, before word got around town that I had let him go. And one of ’em was married!”
“Their motives were merely philanthropic, I am sure,” said Rochester loftily.
“You reckon?” queried the sheriff, and snorted.
Wiki came reluctantly when summoned back to the quarterdeck, wondering if the law had changed its mind about taking him off the list of suspects. As he arrived, Rochester was escorting Tristram Stanton below, and the sheriff was glaring after them with the expression of a hound being cheated of a rabbit. It was not until they had disappeared that he turned the frown on Wiki.
Then he said, sounding surprisingly awkward, “You did some pretty smart sleuthing the day you found that corpse. Some Indians have an uncommon knack of working out what goes on in men’s heads, I’m told, and mebbe some kernackers have the same talent. So … Well, I’d ’preciate your thoughts on this Stanton murder, son.”
Wiki hesitated, first getting over his surprise, and then wondering if he should divulge the crazy idea that had occurred to him after he had studied the top hat that had been left on Tristram Stanton’s desk. However, he decided against it. They were standing by the skylight that was let into the deck to illuminate the saloon below, and he was uneasily aware that anyone in the after quarters would be able to hear every word.
Instead, he cleared his throat and said tentatively, “I imagine you have a list of all those who benefit from Mrs. Stanton’s death.”
“Tristram Stanton’s the only one, goddammit!” And the sheriff slapped his fist against his leg in frustration. “As her husband, he inherits all her money. Believe me, son, her death was extremely well timed. If she’d gone ahead with a divorce, the plantation would’ve gone under the hammer. It was her dowry what saved the plantation from the creditors back when she married Stanton, and it was her money that kept it going after that.”
“Divorce? I thought it was suicide she threatened?”
“That was the common talk—the story the Stantons liked to put around because it didn’t reflect on them as badly as gossip about a divorce.”
“I didn’t know it was possible for a woman to get a divorce in Virginia.”
“Son,” the sheriff heavily pronounced, “anything under the sun is possible in Virginia. If she sued for divorce on the grounds of desertion—which she could and would have done once he’d sailed off—she would be declared feme sole and regain full control of her own property. The Stantons would have been ruined. Tristram Stanton is the obvious killer—but unless a score of guests and a whole passel of Pierce servants are lying in their teeth, there is no way he could have done it. I went around the confounded fleet, tracking down the men who were at that goddamned banquet, and one and all confirmed that he was there.”
Wiki remembered the hatred on the old man’s face and said, “Is it at all possible the father did it?”
“It just don’t seem logical that the servants would testify that they saw Tristram Stanton—not once, but twice, and the second time packing a gun—just to protect the old man. There’s no love for either master in that household. And while he had the power of an ox in his youth, I don’t see the old man breaking a struggling woman’s neck—he’s too lame. And something else that’s damn weird—the surgeon says she’d eaten opium.”
“Opium?” exclaimed Wiki, startled.
“Yup. The old medic started talking opium poisoning the moment he pulled back her eyelids—and we agreed with him when we found the empty vial tucked away in her bosom. He’s positive she would’ve died jest from that—and yet her neck was busted, too.” The sheriff’s tone became plaintive. “Why kill her twice, when once was enough?”
“And why break her neck,” Wiki said slowly, “when there was a good chance otherwise that people would assume she’d poisoned herself?”
“Son, you’ve hit the nail on the head,” said the sheriff, and sighed gustily. Then his gaze slid sideways to study Wiki’s face, while his lips pursed in and out as he deliberated. After a long moment he said, “I’d consider it a favor if you’d keep on thinking about this murder, son—and about Tristram Stanton in particular. If somethin’ should come up—”
The southern drawl trailed off. Wiki paused to make sure that the sheriff was not going to finish the sentence; then he said tentatively, “When we went into Tristram Stanton’s study, did you notice the top hat that had been left on the desk?”
The sheriff squinted one eye in thought and then nodded.
“When he came in, I thought Stanton looked different from the way he had looked on the riverbank, and then realized he had some kind of pomade on his hair. He had changed into the kind of clothes that are correct for a newly bereaved husband, so the obvious conclusion was that he’d dressed his hair like that for formal occasions—which meant that the top hat should have been greasy inside the brim. But when I looked closer, I found no trace of wax at all, even though the hat was well worn.”
“So?”
“Once it seemed evident that the top hat did not belong to Tristram Stanton, I began to speculate about the man who had left it there—which led me to wonder if the murder could have been carried out by an imposter. So long as he was about the right height and build and was wearing the right clothes, he could have gotten away with it. It was dark, remember, and though the manservant was positive he recognized Tristram Stanton, it was probably only a glimpse. And if he had been wearing a hat as he came up the stairs—”
“I see what you mean.” The sheriff shifted his boots, making the deck boards creak, while he thought about it. Then he objected, “But an imposter had to know the old servant well enough to call him by name.”
“And know his way around the house,” Wiki agreed. “There’s also the problem of the distinctive Stanton voice, because the servant was insistent that he recognized it. So I wondered about relatives. Is there anyone related to Tristram Stanton who could have posed as him?”
“Wa-al, that’s a thought.” The sheriff relapsed into a deep silence, frowning down at the warm deck boards between his straddled boots. “There’s only one that comes to mind—a cousin, John Burroughs,” he said finally. “But I don’t see how he could be the murderer, there being no motive whatsoever. He’s a scientific like young Stanton, but rich like Croesus—rich the way the Stantons ain’t but would like to be. Years ago, the way I heard it, he turned ’em away from the door when they came begging for help to save the plantation, and they’ve had nothing to do with each other since. Common talk has it that a feud brewed, and now they’re deadly enemies.”
“Nevertheless, he might be worth looking up.”
“Mebbe—but probably not.” The sheriff straightened
, losing patience with the farfetched and complicated notion, and said, “I’m goin’ to look for that missing rifle. In my opinion, if we find the gun, we have the murderer.”
“But surely he got rid of it?”
“It’s likely he couldn’t bear to throw it away. No man who appreciates a fine weapon is going to destroy a rifle like that. He might’ve stowed it someplace in a hurry after finding there was a witness on the riverbank, but my guess is he’ll retrieve it.”
“H’m,” Wiki said thoughtfully, but before he could ask more, there was a rattle of footsteps on the companionway. He looked around and saw George Rochester rubbing his hands together and looking highly animated. “Sir,” he cried over his shoulder to Erskine, who was coming up close behind him, “there’s nothing to retard us now—the tide’s on the ebb and the wind’s in our favor. We’ll trip anchor, if you please, and stand down the bay.”
“Aye, sir!”
The orders were coming fast, the drawn-out words, “A-l-l visitors ashore!” almost lost in the rattle of, “All hands!” and, “Man the windlass!” Wiki spun on his heel and scooted up the rigging, intent on the big mainsail that was waiting to be loosed. Below him as he sidled out along the yard the gang was working at the windlass to heave the anchor short.
Down went the sheriff’s boat, and down the side went the sheriff. The sky and the sea were brilliant, the water dancing and sparkling, tossed up by a brisk, fair breeze. The canvas dropped, snapped, and rippled taut. “Set jibs!” cried Captain Rochester, and with a snatch and a dainty lift of her bow the Swallow plucked her anchor.
Wiki’s last glimpse of the sheriff was as his boat drew away. The sunlight glittered on the five-pointed badge on his chest. He was not looking at Wiki but at Tristram T. Stanton, who was leaning on the rail directly below Wiki’s perch, and his expression was a study in frustration.
Five
Within days George Rochester was deeply regretting having banished Wiki from the after cabins—not that there had been much choice, he supposed. His stateroom had been the only berth in the after quarters suitable for Astronomer Stanton; and if Wiki had not offered to move forward, George would have been forced to ask him to move into the forecastle—not that he had more than the vaguest idea of what life in the forecastle of a small brig was like. His previous seafaring experience had not included anything that resembled it in the slightest.