Deadly Shoals (17 page)

After taking this in, Wiki walked over to Mr. Peale. “Because of Bernantio and his gauchos, you ate well last night,” he remarked.

The middle-aged naturalist frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You should recompense them in some way. Life is hard on the steppe, but they willingly shared all they had. Courtesy is important here; it can make all the difference between survival and death.”

“But Captain Ringgold paid them well, I believe.” Titian Peale looked at Horatio Hale, who emphatically nodded. The two doctors were listening; their faces had gone quite blank.

Wiki said obdurately, “Tobacco is a suitable gift.”

Silence. For long seconds the four scientists didn't move. Then they glanced at each other before turning out their pockets. Bernantio, who had a very good idea of what had happened though he hadn't understood a word, gave Wiki a fond look before sharing the bounty with his
compadres,
taking punctilious care that no one had less than the rest.

Then he announced that it was time to go. Wiki, who had saddled both horses meantime, mounted the mare, took the pinto's bridle, and accompanied them as far as the headland, where the rendezvous flag still fluttered. The
Trojan
was now at anchor, Wiki noticed, and still smoking hellishly. She was a good two miles downwind from the
Vincennes,
which was well advised, considering how she was fouling the air, but he wondered if Stackpole had changed his mind, and hastened to contact Wilkes. Remembering the whaling master's evasive, sheepish expression, he somehow didn't think so, and felt puzzled again.

“I shall have much to relate to my brother,” said Bernantio.

Wiki smiled. “Give him my best wishes for good health, and for that of his friends and family. Tell him I am working hard on growing my hair, and shall soon be the long-haired rascal he remembers.”

The
rastreador
's deeply tanned face creased up as he nodded, and passed on similar polite good wishes for George Rochester. “Perhaps we will meet again,” he said, and touched his steed with one heel. With a loud yell and a whirling of ponchos, the gauchos spurred their mounts into a gallop, and then they were off.

Would he ever see them again? Wiki watched until the dust they kicked up had settled. It was not until after they were gone that he realized they had taken Mr. Hale's horse with them.

When he finally looked back at the river, the lack of activity was in distinct contrast to the energy of the gauchos' departure. The
Sea Gull
was still floating in the same place, making no discernible move toward raising the anchors. He looked at the sun, thinking that he would have to return the horses now if he was to make the nine o'clock rendezvous on the riverbank—but then, just as he was about to turn away, he saw the whaleboat that was heading briskly shoreward from the direction of the fleet.

Even though it was within a mile of the beach, Wiki was certain it had come from the
Swallow
. Looking up at the flapping rendezvous flag, he found it easy to make up his mind that the lookout on the brig had seen it, and George Rochester had sent the boat for him. Tethering the two horses to the post, he headed pell-mell down the cliff track again, landing on the beach with an athletic, exultant leap.

The boat was approaching the breakers already, and it was possible to see that there was a man wearing uniform in the stern sheets—an officer, because there was a glint of gold in the dark blue. George? And why the uniform? Did he plan to go to El Carmen?

With a swish and a grate of gravel, the boat came to a landing, and to his surprise Wiki realized that it wasn't a
Swallow
boat at all, but belonged to the
Osprey,
his father's brigantine. The six men of the boat's crew weren't even men—they were mere boys, his father's cadets! However, they looked competent enough, as rough and ready as the seamen back on the
Osprey
who were training them to be sailors. One, Wiki noticed, bore the signs of recent battle, and he assumed they had got into a ruckus, as proud, high-spirited, young sailors were often apt to do.

Then he forgot it, beaming delightedly at the uniformed officer, who was most certainly George. His old comrade sprang over the bulwarks with his shiny half-boots in his left hand, waded through the surf, and shook hands heartily with his right. “My God, old man, you're the complete gaucho,” he said. “What the devil have you been up to? Have you met Mr. Seward?”

Mr. Seward was Captain Coffin's first mate, who had been working the steering oar. A lean, athletic-looking character, he walked the length of the boat, then took a leap from the bow that almost cleared the ebb of a wave. His handshake was firm and brief, his hand bony and strong, and he nodded curtly instead of speaking. Wiki had seen him in passing in Rio, and had got the impression of an energetic, impatient character, and Mr. Seward's busy expression and sharp pale green eyes confirmed it.

“When I heard that Mr. Seward was bringing the boys to the beach on a liberty jaunt, I asked the favor of a ride,” George went on. “All our boats are surveying the shoals and tides, according to Wilkes's instructions, and so I had none of my own at my disposal.” Then he added mysteriously, “I couldn't wait to see you.”

Wiki waited, but instead of explaining George waited, too, his expression expectant. Even more perplexingly, Mr. Seward seemed amused at Wiki's open puzzlement. A knowing smile crossed his high-cheekboned, rather good-looking face, before he turned to organize his band of boys into hauling the boat well up the beach and getting out their fishing gear.

When Wiki returned his inquiring gaze to his friend, still no explanation was forthcoming. Instead, George sat down on a rock, brushed his feet and shins, and pulled on his boots. Losing patience, Wiki said, “I can't stay. I have to deliver two horses to a ranch and be down at the river landing by nine.”

Rochester looked up. “Nine? Why so?”

Wiki told him about the
Sea Gull,
and Ringgold's instructions.

George said, “You can come back to the fleet with us, on the
Osprey
boat. Alf Seward and the boys will be here for a few hours yet.”

Wiki was tempted. Surely Captain Stackpole had seen sense, and reported the piracy of the schooner, which meant there was no urgency about seeing Captain Wilkes. When George followed him up the cliff path, announcing that he would help deliver the horses, he made no objection, saying over his shoulder instead, “You've left Midshipman Keith in charge of the brig?”

“Nope.” George sounded rather breathless. Being a captain who spent most of his time in the cabin and on the quarterdeck, and seldom aloft in the rigging, he was not as fit as Wiki.

He said, “We've had a few changes while you've been away.”

“Changes?” Wiki was abruptly full of misgiving, because the word
change
was an ominous one in the expedition fleet, Captain Wilkes being prone to impulsive shiftings about of personnel.

“We have a new first officer,” George said.

On the face of it, this was a very good move. Constant Keith had been a particularly weird choice for second-in-command of the
Swallow,
being a junior mid who'd not even sat his examinations yet, let alone passed them. Though a cheerful, obliging shipboard companion, he was in constant need of Wiki's discreet advice and supervision. It had turned out quite comfortably, as it happened, but was not the most desirable situation, because all hell would let loose if Captain Wilkes ever found out that it was really Wiki who did the mate's job. Accordingly, having a better qualified second-in-command promised to be a big improvement.

However, Wiki's tone was very cautious as he asked, “Who is it?”

“Forsythe.”

Wiki stopped dead with one foot in the air, too shocked for speech. He had personally benefited from Lieutenant Forsythe's stalwart qualities—not only was he a remarkably good shot, but he was a magnificent mariner, too—but the burly, tough Virginian was notorious for his unpredictability, brutality, and foul tongue. During a disastrous couple of weeks, earlier in the voyage, he had replaced Rochester as captain of the
Swallow,
and while all the hands had admired his death-defying seamanship, he had been universally feared.

Wiki demanded, “How the devil did
that
happen?”

Rochester was holding on to a jutting rock for balance. He grinned wryly, and said, “It was one of our dear commodore's sudden decisions.”

“I'd guessed that already—but what was his excuse for landing you with
Forsythe,
of all men?”

“After that American river pilot signed up with the fleet, Wilkes wanted to make use of his local knowledge, and so all the boats have been sent out surveying, with Harden in the role of general instructor. Young Keith was put in charge of one of them, and when I protested about not having a second-in-command on board Wilkes kindly sent Lieutenant Forsythe to take over the job.”

“Harden's signed up with the fleet?” said Wiki in alarm. This was change with a vengeance. Everything that Manuel Bernantino had told him about the troublemaking Harden flooded into his mind.

“A boat from the
Porpoise
called on the
Sea Gull
to see if they needed assistance, and whoever talked to Harden was highly impressed by the way he'd navigated the
Sea Gull
out of the shoals. When they got back to the
Vin
and told Wilkes, Harden was summoned to the flagship for an interview. It's obvious to everyone else that the man's just a common adventurer, but Lieutenant Lawrence J. Smith, who was toadying around Wilkes as usual, talked him into signing him up.”

Wiki thought,
He's more than a common adventurer
—
he's a deserter, an inciter of mutiny, and a killer, according to Río Negro gossip.
Shaking his head, he started climbing again, saying over his shoulder, “So Keith has been shifted back to the
Vin
?”

“Nope, he's still with us, but in the more suitable station of junior officer.” Rochester paused as he negotiated a tricky hairpin turn in the track, and then said apologetically, “Which means that you're both shifted to the other stateroom, I'm afraid.”

Wiki shrugged. “I expected no less.” Over the past couple of months he had been sharing the first mate's stateroom with the young midshipman, to make it easier to pass on the benefit of his seafaring experience. Wiki had commandeered the top berth, and made himself very cozy with a bookshelf and a lamp, but it was only natural for Forsythe to demand the stateroom that was his by right.

He hauled himself over the top of the cliff, rose to his feet, and turned to look out over the sea. The bigger ships of the fleet lay quietly, surrounded by the busy small craft, though he noticed that the whaleship
Trojan
had raised anchor and was slowly heading seaward. The dirty smoke of her tryworks furnace rose in clouds about her white sails as they were set one by one, like wings. When he looked down at the river, the
Sea Gull
was still anchored in the same place, with no discernible movement on her decks.

He looked back at George, who had arrived on the headland, too, and was standing with his hands clasped behind his back in a typical pose, his flat bottom tucked in and his muscular calves pushing out the back of his white trousers. He was smiling placidly as he gazed about the scenery, his eyes creased up with the glare of the early sun.

Wiki said, “I'm amazed you're so serene.”

“Because Forsythe is my first officer, now? But he's well fitted to the station—he's a strict disciplinarian, and an energetic man. And what's even more important in an officer, he speaks prompt, loud, and to the point.”

“Prompt and loud to the point of mortal insult,” agreed Wiki dryly. “But what about the problem of rank?” Though George Rochester had command of a ship, he was only a passed midshipman, which meant that Forsythe, being a lieutenant, was higher in the ranking order, and took precedence when Rochester was away from the
Swallow.

“What problem?” inquired George. With fastidious gestures, he brushed down the sleeves of his uniform coat.

It was reminiscent of a cockerel preening itself. Wiki also noticed that his friend was wearing a complacent smirk.

He said flatly, “Tell me.”

“What?”

“
E hoa
—my friend—you can't expect me to guess. I'm ignorant of the ways of the navy, remember.”

“My left shoulder,” said George pointedly, and jerked with his chin.

Wiki looked. The smartly squared left shoulder of Rochester's blue coat bore a gold epaulette that sparkled grandly in the sun, but for the life of him he couldn't remember whether it was a new addition or not. As far as he was concerned, it had always been there.

“And you call yourself a sleuth,” George chided. “The swab was on the
right
shoulder before.”

“And the fact that it is now on your left means something?”

“It does,” said George complacently.

Light dawned. With a huge grin, Wiki exclaimed, “You've been promoted!”

“You behold
Lieutenant
George Rochester.”

“My God! Turn around—let's look at you in all your glory, from back as well as front! When did you find out?”

“When your father raised the
Swallow
he lowered a boat, and arrived on board with newspapers he'd taken off an incoming Yankee as he was leaving Rio. The top paper was folded to the page with the navy promotions of October. The old devil said nothing, just smiled as he handed it over, and then watched me as I found
my own name
in the list!”

Wiki was silent, greatly marveling. As he knew very well indeed, George Rochester had worked out his seagoing apprenticeship as an officer in the U.S. Navy with grit, determination, and unflagging enthusiasm—all three years, ten months, fourteen days, and sixteen hours of it. Then he had reported to the Gosport Navy Yard for eight months of instruction in the technical and theoretical aspects of seafaring, before keeping an appointment in Baltimore for the grueling oral examination in front of a board of senior officers. He had come through the ordeal at the top of his class, which was the reason he'd been given the command of the
Swallow
—but this was the most remarkable achievement of all. He had been proclaimed a passed midshipman only twenty months earlier, and in times of peace, promotion from passed midshipman to lieutenant happened at a snail-like pace.