‘Have they seen a ship which might be the Lucy Ann, sir?’ Killigrew asked eagerly as the gig bumped against the Tisiphone’s side.
‘We’re the first ship to touch here in over a month,’ replied Robertson, heaving his bulk up through the entry port. ‘But some of the natives say that according to the bush telegraph, a ship dropped anchor in the Bay of Crabs, on the north side of the island.’
‘Bush telegraph, sir?’ asked Midshipman Cavan.
‘Tam-tams, Mr Cavan.’
‘Is it the Lucy Ann, sir?’ asked Killigrew.
‘The natives couldn’t even tell me if she was a whaler. All ships look the same to them. Unlikely that the Lucy Ann could have got here so swiftly, of course, but we need to be certain. Weigh anchor, Mr Darrow!’
Chapter 12
The Bay of Crabs
Able Seaman Wes Molineaux was off duty in the forecastle, idly strumming his guitar while watching his messmates playing cards, when the Tisiphone’s engine started up again. Private Hawthorne emerged from the galley carrying a steaming mug of tea, and in that instant Molineaux was struck by a moment of inspiration.
He put his guitar to one side. ‘Hawthorne? Corporal Summerbee wants to see you topsides.’
Endicott looked up in surprise. ‘What are you talking about, Wes? You know Summerbee doesn’t—’
Molineaux surreptitiously dug an elbow into his friend’s ribs. ‘…Like to be kept waiting,’ he finished Endicott’s sentence for him.
Hawthorne was a well-intentioned young man, a country lad born and bred, but hardly the sharpest tool in the box. ‘I’ve got to take Tommy Pipes his char…’ he stammered, plainly panic-stricken at the thought of having to decide his own priorities.
‘I’ll take the Old Man his char,’ Molineaux assured him. ‘You’d better look lively and see what Summerbee wants.’
Hawthorne looked relieved. ‘Thanks, Molineaux. You’re a pal.’ The seaman clapped him on the shoulder as he relieved him of the mug of tea. ‘Hey, what are friends for?’
As Hawthorne ascended the companion ladder to the forward hatch, Molineaux headed aft with the mug. He knew he was taking a big risk, but something had been preying on his mind ever since the Tisiphone had steamed from Norfolk Island, and he could see only one way to set his mind at rest.
Private Barnes was on duty outside the door to the captain’s day room. ‘Mug of split pea for the Old Man,’ Molineaux told him. The marine opened the door for him. ‘Where’s Hawthorne?’
‘Had to go topsides,’ explained Molineaux, deliberately implying that the marine had been caught short and was paying a visit to the head.
He stepped into the day-room. The door to Robertson’s cabin was open, and he could hear the captain moving about in there. ‘Mug of char, sir?’
‘Put it on the desk,’ Robertson’s gruff voice called back from the cabin.
Molineaux crossed to the desk in the far corner, put down the mug, and after a quick glance to the cabin door to make sure Robertson had still not emerged, he moved some papers aside to look at the files beneath.
If there was one thing Molineaux was suspicious of, it was coincidence. It had been no coincidence that the peelers had knocked on the door of the stable where he and Foxy had been lying low the morning after the theft from Her Majesty’s Theatre: someone had tipped them off. Yet at the same time, he could not help thinking of an Irish priest he had once met in Kilburn named Father Shepherd-Henderson; and of another Irish priest he had met in Cork two years later, also named Shepherd-Henderson, and completely unaware that he had a namesake in London. The double-barrelled name was unusual enough in itself; the fact that both men had gone into the clergy was a remarkable coincidence.
Molineaux was hoping he had stumbled across another remarkable coincidence, but he was disappointed. That was to say, it was a coincidence, true enough – a remarkable coincidence – but not the coincidence he had been hoping for. He swore under his breath.
‘Molineaux!’
Robertson had emerged from his cabin – for a big man he could move like a cat when he wanted to – and now stood staring at the seaman. ‘What the blazes do you think you’re doing?’
Molineaux was so startled that he almost dropped the folder he was holding, but he quickly recovered himself and squared off the papers within by knocking it against the surface of the desk. ‘Clearing a space, sir,’ he said innocently, putting the file to one side with exaggerated care.
‘The devil you are! I saw you going through my papers! What’s the meaning of it, hey?’
‘I wasn’t reading it, sir. I just dropped the folder as I was clearing a space, and the papers fell out. I was trying to put them back in the right order, sir.’
‘You’re a very bright young man, Molineaux. I was very impressed with your reasoning the other day, but don’t let it go to your head. You leave the thinking to us officers and attend to your duties. And if I catch you nosing through my papers ever again… so help me God, I’ll have you keelhauled and strung up from the yard-arm! Hoist in?’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
‘Now get out of my sight.’
Molineaux withdrew.
Back in the forecastle, he met Hawthorne coming down the companion ladder. ‘Corporal Summerbee didn’t want to see me, Wes,’ the marine protested plaintively. Knowing Summerbee, he had probably given Hawthorne a flea in his ear for wasting his time.
‘Didn’t he?’ Molineaux asked innocently. ‘Sorry. I must’ve got confused.’ With a shrug, he rejoined Endicott and the others at the mess table, and Hawthorne went on his way.
‘You never got confused in your life, Wes,’ snorted Endicott. ‘What the bloody hell are you up to?’
‘None of your business, Seth.’
‘You’re going to get yourself in trouble one of these days.’
Molineaux shrugged indifferently. ‘I’ve been there before.’
* * *
Mrs Cafferty listened to the sailors singing a shanty as they worked while she enjoyed one of her rare breaks on deck. The song was unfamiliar: something about a man who shipped on a whaler and, after various trials and tribulations, ended up marrying the captain’s daughter and became first mate. The tune was jaunty enough, and she found herself whistling along to it in an effort to keep her spirits up.
She heard footsteps on the companion ladder and turned in time to see Quested emerge from the after hatch. His face white with rage, he stormed across to where she stood and grabbed her by the shoulder with his right hand. ‘What in tarnation do you think you’re doing?’ he screamed.
‘N… nothing!’ she stammered, stunned and bewildered by his anger. ‘I was just standing here—’
‘Nothing? Nothing! You were whistling, damn you!’
‘What of it?’
‘Don’t you know it’s bad luck to whistle on board ship? And worse luck when it’s a woman whistling! Death and devils! Do you want us all to be drowned?’
‘Well, how was I to know?’ she demanded. ‘If you wish me to respect your ridiculous superstitions, Captain Quested, I suggest you give me a complete list so that I know what not to do in future.’
‘The black vomit wrench ye! I ought to throw you overboard right now!’
‘Keep your shirt on, Quested!’ snapped Wyatt. ‘She wasn’t to know. Hell, even I didn’t know that one—’ He broke off and stared past her shoulder. ‘And what the hell’s that?’
Mrs Cafferty and Quested both turned and saw a sail in the distance.
‘Goddamn it!’ snarled Quested. ‘Who’s supposed to be on lookout?’ He craned his head to where Blake sat at the maintop, fast asleep. ‘One of yours, Mr Wyatt!’
‘Swaddy! Get your idle backside down here now!’ roared Wyatt.
‘Go up and take his place, Osorio,’ Quested told one of his own men, striding across to the binnacle. He took out the telescope and wedged it under one arm to extend it. He raised it to one eye, and looked relieved.
‘It’s only a brig. Proba
bly another whaler, bound for the Japans. Still, we’d best give her a wide berth. Four points to larboard, Palmer!’
‘Aye, aye, Cap’n.’
Blake swung himself under the ratlines and dropped down to the deck, walking across to where Wyatt stood. ‘You wanted to see me, Ned?’
‘Not as much as I—’ Quested began angrily, but Wyatt motioned for him to stand back.
‘I’ll deal with this, Cap’n. Did you have a plummy doss, Swaddy?’
Blake grinned sheepishly. ‘Sorry about that, Ned. I must’ve dozed off for a few seconds there.’
‘You realise, of course, that if that’d been the Tisiphone instead of another whaler, we’d all be as good as scragged by now?’
‘What can I say?’ Blake shrugged. ‘Lucky for us it wasn’t, eh?’
Wyatt rubbed the powder burn on his cheek with the heel of his palm. ‘You know the Tisiphone will be out there looking for us, don’t you? What if she runs into that whaler, and the cap’n tells the crew of the Tisiphone he saw a ship answering our description hereabouts?’ He caught a fistful of Blake’s hair, pulled his head down and caught him in a headlock. ‘Cap’n Quested gave you a perfectly simple job to do, Swaddy. He knew you weren’t a lagger, so he asked you to climb up to the maintop and keep a look-out for other ships. That wasn’t so very difficult, was it? But you still managed to muck it up, didn’t you? You idle bastard!’ he raged. ‘You want to sleep? I’ll let you sleep? You can sleep for ever!’
Wyatt gave Blake’s head a wrench. There was a peculiar snapping sound, and Blake seemed to go limp. Wyatt loosened his grip, and Blake slumped to the ground, his head twisted at an impossible angle. It took Mrs Cafferty several seconds to realise his neck was broken. She fought back the bile that rose to her gorge and reached out to hold on to a pin-rail for support.
‘You know, I’d’ve settled for a whipping myself,’ Quested remarked mildly.
Wyatt grinned, his fury abated as swiftly as it had blown up. ‘You can whip my pals till your arm drops off, Cap’n. Won’t do you no good; some of ’em have been flogged so much they’ve gotten to like it! But none of the others will fall asleep on watch now, I promise you.’ He turned and stalked back to where the other incorrigibles were gathered on the forecastle, their faces white with fear.
Quested turned to Mrs Cafferty. ‘Another ridiculous superstition to add to your list, missy. Don’t make Mr Wyatt angry: it’s bad luck.’
* * *
It took the Tisiphone the best part of two hours to extract herself from the lagoon and circumnavigate the reefs surrounding the island to reach the Bay of Crabs, where the island’s second trading station was located, every bit as ramshackle as the one on the south side of the island. There was not one but two ships anchored in the bay: a small brig, and a familiar-looking topsail schooner flying the white ensign.
‘Isn’t that the Wanderer, sir?’ asked Killigrew, his disappointment at not finding the Lucy Aim forgotten in his surprise at finding Thorpe’s yacht there.
Robertson studied the schooner through the telescope, and nodded. ‘And it looks as though we’re being invited on board,’ he added, as the Wanderer hoisted signal flags. ‘Your turn to accompany me, Second.’
The gig was lowered once again, and as Killigrew and Robertson were rowed across to where the schooner was moored, the lieutenant had his first chance to admire the Wanderer s fine lines properly; he was willing to bet she was a fast sailer. A figure in white – which, from its bulk, could only be Thaddeus Thorpe – stood on the forecastle with one foot on the rail of the head and a gleaming brass telescope raised to his eye, gazing across to an islet off the coast of the main island.
The gig reached the yacht’s side ladder, and a man in an immaculate white uniform, with brass buttons on the double-breasted jacket and a white pilot cap, appeared at the entry port above them.
‘Permission to come aboard?’ asked Robertson. The Wanderer’s signal flags might have invited them aboard already, but even a gruff old salt like Robertson knew that courtesy demanded he ask again.
‘Permission granted,’ replied the uniformed man. ‘You are most welcome, gentlemen.’
Robertson and Killigrew ascended the side ladder, ordering the gig’s coxswain to wait for them. ‘You’re the master of this fine vessel?’ Robertson asked the uniformed man.
‘The first mate, Commander. Captain Thorpe is the master.’ The first mate spoke with the respectful but unobsequious tones of the better sort of butler. ‘Mr Irwin, sir, at your service. Captain Thorpe has asked me to conduct you to the fo’c’sle.’
As they followed Irwin forward, Killigrew took in the upper deck at a glance. Like any naval captain, Robertson liked to keep his decks gleaming, with all rope ends neatly squared away and all metal brightly polished, but so spotless was the upper deck of the Wanderer it put the Tisiphone to shame. It was so spick and span, Thorpe might have been expecting the Queen and Prince Albert on board. Like Irwin, the rest of the crew were immaculately uniformed, but no less competent-looking for all that.
But the thing that really caught Killigrew’s eye was the impressive display of ordnance on deck. There were four brass deck guns – two six-pounders and two four-pounders – on carriages carved in the shape of dolphins; two two-pounder rail guns on each side, and a brass twelve-pounder traversing gun on the forecastle.
They found Thorpe in exactly the same attitude in which they had seen him from the gig, but the reason was clear: a fair-haired, pink-faced young man sat at an easel, painting the entrepreneur’s portrait in oils.
Thorpe lowered the telescope long enough to glance at Robertson and Killigrew. ‘Welcome aboard the Wanderer, gentlemen!’ he effused. ‘You’ll forgive me if I don’t shake hands; as you can see, Mr Greeley is engaged in painting my portrait – and a deuced long time he’s taking over it too. Blast it, Osgood! At least finish painting my head, so I can put my hat on before I get sunburned.’
‘Osgood Greeley?’ stammered Killigrew. ‘The Osgood Greeley?’
The artist smiled, without pausing in his work. ‘Well, an Osgood Greeley, at any rate,’ he admitted.
‘But I’ve seen your work exhibited in London,’ said Killigrew. ‘Seascapes and suchlike. Magnificent use of colour to depict the play of light on clouds and on water.’
The young artist flushed. ‘You’re too kind, Mr…?’
‘Oh, good heavens, do forgive me!’ exclaimed Thorpe. ‘I’m being dreadfully remiss. I think we had better call it a day; or a morning, at least. We’ll resume after dinner, eh, Osgood?’ Thorpe dropped his pose, snapping the telescope shut. ‘You will stay for dinner, won’t you, gentlemen?’ he asked Robertson and Killigrew.
‘I’m afraid we’re in too much haste, Mr Thorpe,’ said Robertson.
‘Then at least stay for tea. Have a pot of tea for four sent to the great cabin, Irwin.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ The first mate rolled his eyes as he passed Killigrew, as if to say: Forty years a seaman, and he uses me like a steward.
‘Let us adjourn to the cabin, eh, gentlemen? By the way, Osgood, this is Commander Robertson of the Tisiphone and his second lieutenant, Mr Killigrew, both of whose acquaintance I had the pleasure of in Hobart Town. As you’ve gathered, gentlemen, this is Mr Osgood Greeley, the artist.’
On the way down to the great cabin, Robertson and Killigrew exchanged handshakes with Greeley.
The great cabin would not have looked out of place on board the royal yacht Victoria and Albert, with oak panelling on the bulkheads and plush velvet furnishings. An off-key note was sounded by the native clubs that decorated the bulkheads, however: ornately carved, the fantastic designs on them could not disguise their deadly purpose.
‘I see you’re admiring my collection of native artefacts, Mr Killigrew,’ beamed Thorpe.
‘I’ve studied a little ethnology, although I’m unfamiliar with the cultures of the Pacific,’ admitted Killigrew. At an age when most of his peers had thrilled to read of Nelson’s exploits,
Killigrew had always preferred Captain Cook’s voyages of discovery. He had always been fascinated by tales of far-off, exotic places, spending hours poring over the globe in his grandfather’s library at Killigrew House in Falmouth, looking up the place names in the Encyclopaedia Britannica, and dreaming that one day he would have a chance to visit them.
He indicated the clubs on the bulkheads. ‘War clubs?’
‘Pig-killing clubs,’ Thorpe corrected him. ‘The New Hebrides are a positive treasure trove for the budding ethnologist. A pity you did not come to these islands in the autumn; our autumn, that is – spring to the people of the New Hebrides. The Nekiowar Festival of Tanna is well worth viewing.’
Thorpe motioned for his guests to be seated at the mahogany table, and joined them. ‘But by far the queerest thing I’ve ever heard of is the Naghol Ceremony of Pentecost Island. It all harks back to a legend of theirs concerning a man named Tamalié who lived in a village called Bunlap in the south of the island. His wife found him intolerable to live with, the legend neglects to say why…’
‘Perhaps he snored,’ suggested Killigrew.
Robertson scowled at his second lieutenant’s flippancy, but Thorpe only chuckled. ‘Perhaps, Mr Killigrew. Tamalié’s wife tried to abscond on numerous occasions, but each time he pursued her and caught her. On one occasion he chased her up an enormous banyan tree. At the very top, she threatened to jump off. She dared him to follow, saying if they both survived then it would be a sign from the gods that they were meant to be together, and that being so she would never run away again. He accepted the challenge. They both jumped. But the woman had taken the precaution of tying a length of yam vine to her ankle. She survived; Tamalié fell to his death.’
‘That’s what comes from trusting a woman,’ grunted Robertson.
Killigrew and the Incorrigibles Page 21