by Joan Druett
“I am tired of this insolent determination to carry on a conversation without your having the common politeness to explain,” Smith said petulantly.
This time Wiki spared him a glance. He shrugged and said, “The man at the banquet in Newport News was the wrong man, that’s all.”
“That’s odd,” remarked Smith, suddenly looking quite animated, as if this obscure and slanderous conversation had some meaning after all. “That’s exactly what Midshipman Keith reported hearing Passed Midshipman Rochester saying just before he disappeared.”
“What?”
“According to Mr. Keith, Passed Midshipman Rochester muttered to himself, ‘I have to tell Wiki it was the wrong man’—or ‘not the same man,’ or something like that. Then he asked Keith to get a boat and boat’s crew so he could hasten to the Swallow; but when Keith came back, he had vanished. Mr. Keith was the last man to see him,” Smith concluded complacently, leaving the word “alive” unsaid but hanging in the air.
“Oh, my God,” said Wiki softly. His pulse was hammering with a new sense of crisis. “George had realized that the man at Wilkes’s feast was a different man from the one at the Newport News banquet—and Tristram Stanton was watching him as he worked it out.”
Knowing George as well as he did, Wiki was certain that his expressive face would have revealed every nuance of thought. Tristram Stanton would have realized at once that it was necessary to get him out of the way before he blurted out his suspicions, that it was just as urgent to get rid of George Rochester as it had been to get rid of … Jim Powell. Before Jim Powell told anyone the whole truth about that note.
Wiki said urgently to Smith, “Have they found Jim Powell’s body yet?”
“Who?”
“Jim Powell—the seaman who was nearly strangled by the buntline.”
Smith said petulantly, “Why do you ask at a time like this? Why is it important?”
“Because Tristram Stanton murdered him—just as he murdered Astronomer Burroughs. He broke Burroughs’s neck after knocking him out with a blow to the head and then strung up his corpse to make it look as if he’d hanged himself, but he couldn’t manage the same trick when he killed Powell. So, Lieutenant,” Wiki said savagely, “I would be obliged if you would tell me if they’ve found Jim Powell’s corpse yet.”
Lieutenant Smith puffed out his chest and said with dignity, “They have not, but the matter is closed. Captain Wilkes’s verdict was that Powell went overboard during the storm. There is no evidence of foul play whatsoever.”
“Even if no one saw Jim go over—which I find very hard to believe—why was there no sighting of his body? Bodies float, Lieutenant, and there’s a complement of more than two hundred on the Vincennes!”
“And there are sharks in the ocean, sir, sharks!”
Sharks. Wiki stilled utterly, lost in a ghostly memory of phosphorescent trails cruising the expanse of sea between the flagship and the Porpoise, his mind reverberating with the long death chant of the Rotuman.
Sharks. It had been the night of the first live firing, Wiki remembered. Had the school of sharks been drawn by the concussion of cannon—or had there been blood in the water? He thought of the way the great predators had circled, and Rochester’s lively description of the way the barrel had exploded into tiny fragments. As every seaman knows, a handful of chips heaved overboard will float in all directions—in ever-widening circles. If there was blood or flesh in among those chips …
Every muscle was tense, a past conversation with this pompous little red-faced man vividly in mind. Wiki said slowly, “When Captain Wilkes kept back a select few to drink port and madeira, was Astronomer Stanton included?”
“He had an invitation,” Smith replied. His lips were pursed in a way that showed how much he disliked this cross-examination. “However, he rather rudely excused himself on account of the headache. He had drunk rather a lot of wine,” he added, with more than a hint of disapproval.
Wiki took a deep breath. “So was it Astronomer Stanton who suggested today’s exercise?”
“Why, yes!” Smith had been busily pouring himself more coffee, but now he looked around, his expression surprised. “How did you guess?”
“Did he also suggest that it should be a live exercise? With a barrel as a target?”
“Yes—just as before! And he offered to find the barrel, too.”
Wiki whispered, “Oh, dear Jehovah,” and sprinted up the stairs.
Far across the water, a boat was putting out from the flagship. As Wiki watched with urgent intensity, screwing his eyes up against the bright sun and the glitter on the sea, the boat pulled slowly but steadily until it was about two hundred yards from the Vincennes. His fists gripped the rail so hard the wood bit into them, and he was only vaguely aware of the two lieutenants arriving alongside him. The harsh light stung his eyes so piercingly that tears ran down his cheeks, but through the blur Wiki watched as the oarsmen stilled the boat, stirring the water with their long blades. A couple of others stood up, balanced themselves, and then manhandled a cask over the gunwale. Over it went, with a distant splash, to settle, bobbing, halfway to the surface. The boat’s crew took up their oars again and sculled back to the flagship.
Wiki could just discern the open gunports and imagine the short muzzles of the carronades. The snout of the starboard chaser was poking over the rail at the quarter.
He spun round and exclaimed, “They mustn’t fire—we have to stop the exercise!”
Lieutenant Smith went redder in the face than ever, his little eyes popping. “What’s that?”
“We must stop them firing those guns—before someone is killed!” Unless George is already dead. Wiki thrust the thought away.
Forsythe’s hoarse drawl inquired, “And how exactly, Mr. Deputy Coffin, are we going to manage to do that?”
“Signal them!”
“I doubt they’ll take a single damn moment’s notice of any signals we might fly.”
“Lower a boat,” Wiki said desperately. “Get the boat between the cannon and the target.”
“You’re insane, Mr. Coffin!” snapped Lieutenant Smith. “You propose frustrating a naval exercise on the basis of a wild whim!”
“And who do you think will be brave enough to get between a loaded cannon and its target?” queried Forsythe, with unabated amusement, paying no attention whatsoever to his apoplectic second-in-command.
“Volunteers,” Wiki looked around, sorting out names in his head. Sua and Jack Savvy would be with him, he was certain. Then he looked at Forsythe, and said, “Lower a boat. When Captain Wilkes holds an inquiry, I’ll accept all the responsibility.”
“You got a reason for this?” said the southerner, his expression cynically entertained. “Or are you jest tryin’ to be a pain in Stanton’s arse—seeing this exercise was all his idea?”
A drum was rattling out on the Vincennes, heard only in faint scraps at that distance, but still identifiable as a beating to quarters. All too vividly, Wiki could picture Captain Wilkes standing on the poop, his speaking trumpet at the ready.
He said desperately, “If that barrel is sunk, the only evidence that John Burroughs was the man at the Newport News banquet will be lost. Tristram Stanton’s got rid of everyone else. He murdered Burroughs by snapping his neck, just as he snapped Ophelia’s, except he managed to pass it off as suicide. Then he got rid of Powell by knocking him on the head and putting him in the target barrel! That’s how he got rid of the corpse!”
“That’s accusation without a shred of evidence!” shouted Lieutenant Smith. “It has been bad enough listening to the wild slanders you have made against Astronomer Stanton—which I will certainly report—but for a civilian to bear a hand in the affairs of the ship—”
“Why, what gives you that idea?” said Forsythe to Wiki, looking interested.
“The sharks! The sharks that came all about after the last exercise! Don’t you remember them? They were drawn by the blood in the water!”
“I
cannot allow this!” Lieutenant Smith cried. “Lieutenant Forsythe, order the bo’sun to take charge of this man!”
“You call me captain while you’re on board my goddamned ship!” barked Forsythe. Then he looked at Wiki and nodded. “Lower a boat,” he said. “Call for volunteers.”
“Captain Forsythe, I protest most strenuously! If you value your career—”
“Oh, do shut up, you noisy little bugger,” said Forsythe, and put a large hand in the middle of the taut little paunch and shoved. Lieutenant Smith staggered backward and sat down on the deck abruptly, but Forsythe was not even looking. Instead, he brushed his palms together, as if to get rid of dirt.
Wiki looked back at the distant Vincennes. To his horror he glimpsed activity behind one of the gunports as a carronade was run out. The exercise had commenced. He spun on his heel, shouting names.
Men seemed to take an age to listen and comprehend what was needed, but then all at once they were at the starboard rail and the boat was down. Even as it splashed, there was a distant concussion from the flagship. Wiki watched tensely, his breath held as the ball soared over the target and hit the water farther on. The barrel was bobbing hard, bouncing up and down as if some great fish was nudging it from beneath the surface.
Abruptly, then, Wiki realized that Forsythe was beside him—carrying a rifle. Not one of Stanton’s, but his own favorite weapon. “I’m coming,” the southerner said shortly. Wiki paused, but there was no time to argue. Then, on a sudden impulse, he dashed across the deck to the signal locker, grabbed a flag, ran back to the rail, and vaulted into the boat.
As the oarsmen hauled at their oars, another thudding explosion sounded from the Vincennes.
Twenty-six
Captain Wilkes hollered, “Silence fore and aft!”
Midshipman Keith rubbed his palms down the sides of his trousers to wipe off the sweat. The preliminary orders to wet and sand the decks and cast loose the guns, after removing their tompions and muzzle bags, had been heard and followed long since. There had been five dumb practice exercises, and now the live show was about to commence.
Keith was determined that his gun crew—Passed Midshipman Rochester’s gun crew—was not going to let the missing officer down. They had won the competition before, and they were going to hit that target again. His five tackle men had clapped onto the ropes and run the gun carriage inboard, and now they stared at him with resolute expressions that reflected how he felt. One of the scientifics, Astronomer Stanton, seemed to feel the same confidence, too, because he was standing close by, watching every preparation with narrow attention.
Midshipman Keith started to bawl out the next order, stopped when his voice threatened to squeak, and then said gruffly, “Chock your luff!”
The ship was barely moving on the flat calm of the sea, so the men at the tackles simply braced their shoulders to maintain tension on the carriage.
“Stop vent!”
The captain of the gun leaned over the breech and placed a piece of leather over the touch hole.
“Cartridge!”
The powder boy fished about in his leathern bucket, produced a cylindrical bag of gunpowder, and heaved it across to the loader, who swung it around and shoved it up the barrel.
“Wad and ram home!”
The rammer inserted a wad and pushed it up the maw of the cannon as far as it would go. The captain of the gun bent over again to poke his priming iron through the breech and wiggle it. Looking up at Midshipman Keith, he said gravely, “Home, sir!”
“Grape, I think—don’t you?” asked Keith. A democratic fellow, he had decided on a program of building camaraderie by consulting with his men.
“Aye, sir, most certainly, sir! Let’s blast that barrel to smithereens!”
“Then make it so,” said Midshipman Keith, and watched the loader heave up the bag of grape and shove it down the barrel. “Ram home!” he cried, and the rammer leaped forward with his wad and rammer again.
“Man side-tackle falls, run out!” The two side-tackle men hauled mightily at the ropes, running the gun up to the rail and forcing out the snout as far as it would go. Squinting along the brute length of it, Midshipman Keith fixed his eye on the target—which was bobbing up and down in a highly uncooperative fashion, considering the flatness of the sea—and cried, “Crows and handspikes!”
During the exercises he had kept the muzzle of the cannon aimed at the surface about two hundred yards off, guessing that that was where the target would be, and so there was not a great deal of heaving and hauling necessary. The chaser, in fact, was primed and aimed for action in a satisfyingly short time. However, to the gun crew’s intense irritation, the other chaser had the first shot. Midshipman Keith heard hurried footsteps as Astronomer Stanton went across with his spyglass to check their aim, followed by Captain Wilkes’s shout, “Number six!”—followed by a great boom from the far side of the deck.
To the gun crew’s satisfaction, however, the shot soared over the target and then bounced and sank. Astronomer Stanton arrived back at Midshipman Keith’s side and said, “Quite a few degrees high. Do you think you should lower your sights, officer?”
“Sir, I think we are fine,” said Keith firmly, disliking interference from a civilian, and wondering why he was taking such an active part.
Stanton’s reply, if he made one, was muffled by Captain Wilkes’s shout, “Number four!” A carronade hurled its charge, but, because the Vincennes ducked a sudden curtsey as a gust of wind came out of nowhere to slap the sails briefly full, the shot was well wide of the target.
Astronomer Stanton said sharply, “Bring your bearings round, Midshipman. Make allowance for the movement of the ship.”
Midshipman Keith said coldly, “I beg your pardon, sir?”
“Don’t you want to win? There’s a gold guinea for each man of your gun crew if you blow that barrel to pieces.”
“Number seven!” roared Captain Wilkes’s amplified voice.
Keith’s crew spat on their palms and braced their shoulders, enlivened still further by the prospect of a bounty. However, the midshipman was frowning, wondering about the astronomer’s urgency.
“Take your time, my lads,” he said.
“But you must take advantage of the lull!” Astronomer Stanton urged as the puff of wind died. “Tell your captain to cock the lock and prime the charge, sir! I will double the bounty if you smash it first shot!”
Keith stared at him, acutely aware that the gun crew was fidgeting with impatience, and that the whole ship was watching and waiting. Then, from beyond the astronomer’s head, he glimpsed a movement, a half mile out.
“Hulloa,” he said, going to the rail to see better. A boat was pulling out from the little brig Swallow, her men pulling at the oars with evident frenzy. Obviously, it was not part of the stated program, because Keith could see Captain Wilkes and the First Lieutenant conferring while they aimed their spyglasses, and hear stray bits of their conversation, which betrayed that they were as mystified as he was.
Astronomer Stanton said sharply, “The exercise has not been cancelled, Midshipman Keith. It is your turn to fire, and your captain expects you to do your duty.”
He was right, Keith thought unwillingly. He turned to the gun captain and said, his voice reluctant, “Cock your lock, if you will.”
The gun captain poured priming powder over the vent with the aid of a goose quill, but Keith’s eyes kept on moving away from him and back to the boat. It had become evident that it was not steering for the Vincennes, as he had originally thought, but was making for the barrel target. Even more oddly, despite the fact that there was scarcely any breeze, one of the men in the boat was stepping the mast.
Click. It was a small sound, but loud enough to seize Keith’s attention. When he looked back at the cannon the captain had pulled back the hammer. His eyes met Midshipman Keith’s and held an attentive stare, his whole frame poised as he held the string of the firing lanyard in his hand, ready for the igniting pull.
“You don’t need the match,” Astronomer Stanton exclaimed. “Give the order to pull!”
“Routine, sir, must be followed,” said Midshipman Keith, carefully keeping reprimand out of his tone. While he watched the slow fuse smolder red as the loader blew gently, just in case the flintlock did not catch, his eyes kept on flickering over to the boat. The mast was up, and a bundle of brilliant fabric was being bent to it. It might as well have been a sail because no sooner was it attached than another gust of wind flicked up and the cloth billowed out.
It was a flag—the ensign of the United States! Everyone was staring in puzzlement, and Keith could hear muttered exclamations and queries from all about the deck.
“Fire!” exclaimed Astronomer Stanton—and Keith whirled round. For an instant he thought that the gun captain would obey the civilian, simply because of the authorative snap in his voice. But a loud cry from the quarterdeck distracted the gunner, so he looked around instead of yanking on the cord.
Captain Wilkes had an arm out, pointing at the main truck of the brig Swallow, and all the heads on deck were turned to see what the agitation was about. A signal was being hoisted—a signal that Keith had never seen before, a blue triangle with a rectangular cutout in the middle of the hoist.
Captain Wilkes and the First Lieutenant were equally perplexed, it seemed, because the quartermaster was being summoned. Hurried footsteps rattled over the quarterdeck and books were being consulted.
Then, with a shock, Keith felt his upper arm gripped. He swung around to find Stanton’s heavy, furious face close to his. The astronomer snapped, “When the hell are you going to order them to fire that goddamned gun?”
“Sir, I—”
Keith stopped. A voice echoed from the quarterdeck, saying, “The signal reads that the brig Swallow is endangered, sir—but from what cause, it is impossible to—”