Shark Island

by Joan Druett

  Rochester said alertly, “So where are these privateers now?”

  “God knows, because he wouldn’t tell us. Once he’d got that little complaint off his chest all he wanted to do was get down into his cabin, open a bottle of brandy, and gossip.”

  “Gossip?”

  “He was in a sociable frame of mind—ready to party, anxious for a spree. Rattled like a carriage on a rutted road. Jolly as a country priest.” And Forsythe, his expression sardonic, swigged coffee and set the mug down.

  “Jolly?” George echoed incredulously. “When he’d lost his sloop, fouled his schooner, and was on the verge of foundering?”

  “The way he sank that brandy, it was almost like he had somethin’ to celebrate. As I just told you, when he arrived on deck to hail us he was waving his stick and shouting Salvation!—but once we were settled he didn’t even think of begging for a carpenter. Instead of hurrying us up, he was as hospitable as you please—sent the steward forward with grog for the cutter’s crew. Told us how he watched the Peacock take fright at the sight of the old fort and kick up her wake to get out of cannon shot. Thought it the best goddamned joke he’d enjoyed in years.” Forsythe added candidly, “If I’d been that boneheaded Hammond, I’d have sent a boat a-beggin’ for a surgeon. The old man looked as out of touch as a hound dog in a fit.”

  George shook his head in bemusement, and said, “Did he make any sense at all?”

  “Sometimes—but his mood swung all about the compass. Quarrelsome one moment, affable the next. Unpredictable as hell.”

  “You told Hammond he’d made aspersions about the exploring expedition,” said Wiki.

  “He had the bloody sauce to inform me that it was a waste of money because Stonington sealers have already established the continent of Antarctica—in that little sloop Hero that’s lyin’ out there on the beach!”

  George exclaimed, “Did you believe him?”

  “I’m just tellin’ you what the old man told me—that the Hero reached Antarctica in 1820, no less, commanded by some Stonington cove by the name of Nat Palmer. And then he reckoned that the Annawan—again with Palmer in command—headed off with a three-ship fleet called something like ‘South Sea Fur Company’ for an exploring expedition in high southern latitudes, but that they came back without finding a thing.”

  Wiki vividly remembered Nathaniel Palmer, who had been one of the most prominent guests at Annabelle’s wedding. A tall, dark, elegant man, with a long nose and piercing eyes, he had inspired awe and admiration. However, he did not remember any mention of either the Hero or Antarctica. The lively chatter about Nathaniel Palmer had been much more sensational than that—that he had sailed in the service of the great Simón Bolívar in the fight to free South America from the clutches of colonial Spain! In fact, Wiki thought ironically now, Nat Palmer had been nothing more or less than an insurgent privateersman.

  Forsythe went on, “Reed kept on telling me he was a big heap taxpayer, and that the exploring expedition was a big heap waste of his taxes. Then he ranted on about what a misjudgment it had been for him and the other Stonington merchants who funded that South Seas expedition, because they didn’t find a goddamned seal or catch even a single fur.”

  “So you spoke up in defense of the Wilkes expedition?” Rochester queried.

  “I was angry enough to get up and walk out, to tell the truth,” Forsythe admitted. “Aye, I do confess he got me pretty riled up about it—but when I was right on the verge of headin’ forward and jumpin’ down into the cutter he talked me into sending a note, instead.”

  “And you saw Hammond head off with the message?”

  “Aye.”

  “Any idea why he took two boats instead of one?”

  Forsythe shook his head. “Though it did strike me as odd at the time,” he allowed.

  “But you went back to the cabin instead of asking why?”

  Forsythe hesitated, and then confessed, “His wife joined us, and I guess she kinda took my mind away from asking pertinent questions.”

  Wiki was frowning down at his coffee. Looking up, he said, “Where had she been up until then?”

  “I haven’t a notion—but she came from someplace forward, carrying a new bottle of brandy and a tray of snacks.”

  “And what happened then?”

  “What happened then,” Forsythe said sardonically, “is that after a bit of conversation Reed suddenly turned nasty—flew into a rage and threw me and Zack out.”

  Rochester exclaimed, “What triggered that?”

  “The woman. She’s a goddamned mischief maker.”

  “What do you mean, a mischief maker?”

  Forsythe’s brooding stare slid to Wiki’s face, and he said, “She’s a—a taunter. She taunted her husband with allusions to other men in her past, and then she taunted me. She asked what the expedition would be doing in the Pacific islands, and when I told her about making the ocean safe for American mariners she prophesied that we would disgrace the American flag by punishing the wrong goddamned Kanakas.”

  Rochester exclaimed with horror, “What?”

  “Wa’al,” said Forsythe while his gaze shifted to Wiki’s face again, “she ain’t nothin’ but a Cajun swamp rat, herself, so it’s only to be expected she should be a darkie-lover.”

  “Oh God,” said Rochester, and put his head in his hands. “Surely you didn’t tell her that?” he groaned. As a meeting between the U.S. Navy and the merchant service, this sounded like nothing less than a disaster. Looking at the lieutenant again, he demanded, “Is that why he threw you out?”

  Forsythe shook his head.

  “Why, then?”

  “He took extreme exception to somethin’ Zack Kingman said.”

  “And that was…?” said Wiki. He was not at all sure what to expect but, knowing Passed Midshipman Kingman, was sure it was grossly offensive.

  “It was nothing but a joke—and a very amusin’ joke, at that. But the old man took offense—yelled a few obscenities and ordered us out of the cabin.”

  “And you argued about it?”

  “We bloody well did not! We left like tender little lambs, and his wife was still there when we left—so if you’re picturin’ me gettin’ into a brawl with him, forget it. She—and Zack—can confirm it if you don’t believe me.”

  Rochester said, “So what happened after you left the cabin?”

  “Zack and I headed forward, me yelling at the cutter’s men to ready the boat to get under way, seeing as what we wasn’t welcome any more. They had been on the foredeck all the time, and when they heard us they stood up and turned around.”

  “And then?”

  “Just as we got abreast of the mainmast, I heard Captain Reed shout, Get out, you goddamned bitch! And out Mrs. Reed come, bursting from the after house so quick I figured he give her a kick to help her along. The way she taunts, she most surely deserves it. Wa-al, Zack and I wasn’t anxious for her company, neither—not right at that moment—so we headed forward brisker than ever. We was heading down the starboard side, while she ran down the larboard side, heading for the galley.”

  “The galley?” Wiki was flabbergasted. The galley, a shed with a chimney which was set on the forward deck to keep the smoke away from the helmsman’s eyes, was the ship’s kitchen. Furnished with a big iron stove, it was the realm of the cook. Though he knew very little about captains’ wives at sea, he’d never imagined one using the galley as a refuge—on all the ships he’d sailed, the crew had considered the ship’s cook the lowest of the low.

  “You heard me—the goddamned galley,” Forsythe repeated. “God alone knows what drove her there, but at that moment it was probably the best place for her, considerin’ her husband’s mood. But when she’d just about got there the silly bitch turned around, and ran back to the quarterdeck and back down into the cabin, the devil alone knows why. Next thing, out she come yellin’ bloody murder. By that time, Zack and me are just about on the foredeck. We come running back aft, Wiki hove into sight, and I
asked what the noise was about.”

  There was dead silence while Wiki and Rochester stared at him, but Forsythe said nothing more. “And that’s it?” said George at last.

  “Aye—and it’s the goddamned truth!” Forsythe snapped.

  “So who the devil knifed Captain Reed?”

  “Not me, that’s for bloody sure.”

  “But it sounds as if no one else was there!”

  There was another blank silence, while Forsythe looked aggressively from Rochester to Wiki and back again. Then he repeated, “It wasn’t me,” and slammed down his mug and left the table. “I’m gettin’ into uniform,” he snapped. “It’s high time I got away.”

  The quick equatorial dusk was falling. As Forsythe went into his stateroom off the larboard side of the saloon, Stoker came out of the pantry and drew down the lamp that hung in the skylight. He lit it, and pushed it back on its hook, and then, after lifting the coffeepot to check its weight, he headed off to refill it.

  George said very quietly, “It does sound horribly like a drunken brawl, old chap. Do you think Forsythe was so drunk he’s forgotten he drew a knife on Reed?”

  “He wasn’t that intoxicated,” Wiki objected, remembering that Forsythe had seemed quite rational when they checked Captain Reed’s corpse. “And then there is Passed Midshipman Kingman,” he added. “It sounds as if he’ll confirm his story.”

  “They’re close cronies,” George pointed out, still talking softly so that Forsythe, changing into uniform in his stateroom right next door, couldn’t overhear.

  “You think he would lie to protect his friend?”

  “It has happened in the past—and I don’t see how anyone else could have got into the captain’s cabin without being seen. After all, according to Forsythe’s account, the deck was busy, with Mrs. Reed running to the galley along one side, and Kingman with Forsythe himself hastening to the cutter on the other.”

  “Ah, but there is a way,” said Wiki, and described the between-decks storage area, concluding by saying, “There are two hatches leading down into it, one close to the galley and another near the after house.”

  “So it’s possible to get from the foredeck to the captain’s cabin by going between decks?”

  “Definitely.”

  “So any of the men still on board could have done it?”

  “Anyone who was powerful enough to drive a knife all the way through Captain Reed’s chest,” said Wiki, and nodded grimly in reply to Rochester’s startled, questioning look.

  Then they were interrupted by the opening of Forsythe’s stateroom door. The southerner’s burly form was a splendid sight in a claw hammer lieutenant’s blue coat with gold trimmings, white satin breeches hugging his muscular thighs. Wiki suddenly thought he knew why he had come on board alone, and sent Kingman off with the cutter—so that he, Lieutenant Forsythe, would cut a much finer figure than his subordinate at the wake.

  Annabelle had certainly worked her wiles. The thought was an ominous one.

  Eleven

  Forsythe had got ready just in time, because Midshipman Keith came clattering down the companionway to inform him that the cutter had arrived to take him to the schooner. As they both disappeared up to deck, Stoker arrived back in the saloon with the replenished coffeepot, filled both Wiki’s and George’s mugs, and then went back into the pantry.

  George said to Wiki, “Let’s take our coffee into my cabin. I’d like you to help me with something.”

  Wiki bit back a sigh, because it had been a long day, and he had a lot to think about. When he took his customary seat on the transom sofa in the captain’s cabin, however, his interest was immediately revived. A box stood on the chart desk—the same box that had been under Rochester’s arm as they had left the schooner.

  He said alertly, “The Annawan’s papers?”

  “Aye. I was forced to confiscate them in the name of the U.S. Navy.”

  “Confiscate them? Officially? But why?”

  “Because Mrs. Reed seemed determined to destroy them.”

  “What?”

  “When I arrived on board she was sitting on a bench by the after house and incapable of speech, but not long after that the corpse came up in a winding sheet, and the steward went back down with a bucket and a mop. Five minutes after that, he came back up to deck and announced that the cabin was clean, and Joel Hammond persuaded Madame to return to her sanctum. I gave her a few minutes more to calm herself, and then I went down to express my sympathy and offer her any assistance that lay within my power—to find her taking papers out of this box, looking at each one briefly, and then throwing them into the cabin fire.”

  “Dear God,” said Wiki, shocked. “All the papers, or just certain ones?”

  George put his head on one side. “Interesting question,” he said at last. “I confiscated the box as soon as I realized what was happening—but I had the impression that she was looking for a certain document, and was burning everything else while she hunted.”

  “But why?”

  George shrugged. “No idea, old chap. Perhaps she was just clearing out what she considered rubbish while she looked for whatever was important.”

  Wiki, wondering uneasily what Annabelle might consider important, watched Rochester open the box, which turned out to be an intricate affair. Inside the lid there was a special slot for the customhouse papers, crew list, and registration papers, while the body of the box itself was neatly divided by partitions. George picked up a handful from the nearest niche, gave half to Wiki, and then they settled to reading.

  Wiki said at length, “These are letters relating to Ezekiel Reed’s commercial dealings.”

  “Mine are the same,” said Rochester, looking up with one eyebrow raised rather quizzically. “Letters from captains with reports of cargoes sold, and requests for instructions. According to what I see here, Captain Reed seems to have been what my grandfather calls a ‘substantial’ man—he owned not just the Annawan, but at least ten other ships.”

  Wiki shook his head in wonder. “I knew Ezekiel Reed was rich, but had no idea how rich—though probably my father did.”

  “Your father?”

  “Aye. He and Ezekiel Reed were great friends.”

  “You knew Captain Reed?”

  “My father took me to Stonington quite often.”

  “And Mrs. Reed?”

  “I was there when Captain Reed married Annabelle—Annabelle Green, she was then.”

  “Good God. It’s a small world—though I suppose that those who ply the oceans are all brothers, in a sense.” Rochester considered, and then said, “How long ago was this?”

  “The wedding? Eight years ago.”

  “She’d been married that long? She struck me as quite young.”

  “She was only eighteen at the time.”

  George said, “Ah,” and sank into thought again. Then he said, “So you attended the wedding with your father—and your stepmother?”

  “My father’s wife refused to attend the wedding,” Wiki said without expression.

  “What? Why so?”

  “She reckoned that Annabelle Green was a fortune hunter who had trapped Ezekiel Reed into a highly unsuitable match, and so she refused to honor it with her presence.”

  There was a speculative pause, and then George remarked, “I haven’t seen Mrs. Reed at her best, but it seems to me that she’s a remarkably good-looking young woman.”

  Wiki said dryly, “She was a very lovely young bride—and Ezekiel Reed was twice her age at the very least.”

  “So it’s easy to guess how she did trap him—if Mrs. Coffin was right. But maybe it was a love match. Did it look like a love match to you?”

  Wiki paused. The tide was changing, and the brig creaked comfortably as an accompaniment to his memories. Finally he shook his head.

  “You were—how old at the time? Sixteen? So it was just before you and I were sent to the college at Dartmouth—and if I remember correct, you already had an extremely well-develo
ped appreciation of a well-turned ankle.” George said shrewdly, “Are you sure you didn’t fall in love with her yourself, my friend?”

  Instead of saying anything, Wiki looked down at the letters he was sorting.

  Then he heard Rochester say, “Maybe she did love her husband. We have to remember that she chose to come on a sealing voyage, which is quite a test of loyalty.”

  “Unless it was on his orders,” Wiki said rather quickly.

  “Perhaps—but it seems bizarre that he should embark, for that matter. For the life of me I can’t imagine why a rich old merchant would take it into his head to undertake a chilly voyage south after seals when he could be sitting in luxury counting his money at home.”

  “Neither can I,” Wiki admitted, and, having finished looking through the handful of papers, he handed them to George, who put them away and then gave him more.

  “They say that some men never think they’re rich enough, no matter how much money they’ve got salted away,” George mused.

  “True,” said Wiki.

  “Did you like Ezekiel Reed?”

  The question was so abrupt Wiki looked up in surprise. He thought about the times he and his father had visited Ezekiel Reed, and then shook his head. “He was always jovial, but I didn’t really see all that much of him,” he said. “He and my father spent most of their time doing what they called ‘discussing bottles,’ either together, or with ship captains close to their own age. At times he was drunk and undignified. Truth to tell, he seemed terribly old to me.”

  “Hmm,” said George, and Wiki knew that he was wondering if Captain Coffin had got drunk, too. However, he said nothing more, and there was silence for a few minutes, except for the rustling of paper and the creak of the brig. Then George threw them back in the box and said, “These are letters about commercial dealings, too.”

  “Likewise,” said Wiki, and wondered what Annabelle could have been hunting for that was so important that everything else could be readily burned. Surely she must have realized that these letters, being evidence of cargoes in transit and financial deals in port, could make a difference to the fortune she would inherit?