Deadly Shoals (21 page)

“Court-martial?”
Mr. Peale exclaimed. All the scientifics looked at each other, horrified at this development. “I didn't intend the matter to go as far as that! I would rather ask to be returned to the United States at the first opportunity—”

“Impossible, Mr. Peale.”

“But it would be better for all concerned if I left—”

“Obviously, sir, you have forgotten the terms of the agreement you signed.”

“Agreement, Captain?” The naturalist's voice rose. “The way
I
remember it, the agreement was with
you
—an agreement in which
you
gave
us
a reassurance of protection and assistance for all the members of the scientific corps!”

“Mr. Peale, you have
always
had my protection and guaranteed assistance—just so long as it is possible without sacrificing the greater interests of the voyage. I'm sure you'd be the first to complain if your ship sank under you, sir! And the same applies to all my officers—including the officers on board the surveying schooner
Sea Gull
. Obviously, they had a great deal more to do than cater to the whims of civilians.”

“That's it!” exclaimed Mr. Peale. “We're
civilians,
and beneath notice! The officers regard us as mere spectators—people who have an irritating habit of making strange demands, and who get in the way of their proper work. We're subject to the etiquette of a man-of-war without any of its privileges!”

“Etiquette?” Captain Wilkes echoed, his voice rising again. “But you've made no attempt to follow the etiquette of a man-of-war!”

The ship dipped and surged again, so abruptly that this time the scientifics lurched against each other, at the same moment looking at each other in a puzzled fashion, mystified to a man by this strange accusation. “We've all done our best to adjust to the circumstances,” objected one.

“Have you picked up a looking glass lately?” Captain Wilkes demanded. “If you'd followed orders—orders handed down by the Department of the Navy!—you would have the appearances of men who are worthy of being treated as officers! Instead, you all—save for a few outstanding examples, such as Mr. Dana and Mr. Hale—have insisted on being a horrid example! How can I keep discipline when the
scientific corps,
who are utterly dependent on my goodwill, disregard my strict instructions?”

Silence. The scientifics all stared at Mr. Hale, who had turned bright red with embarrassment, and Mr. Dana, whose good-looking face was quite blank beneath his great mop of waving hair.

Then Dr. Fox bravely spoke up, saying, “I'm sorry, Captain Wilkes, but we don't have the slightest idea what you're talking about.”

“I'm talking about the matter of dress! The instruction from the Navy Department to all the scientifics was to obtain lieutenants' undress uniform, and wear it on all public occasions. You mess with the wardroom officers, and have the same rations, and so you should dress accordingly. But only two—Mr. Dana and Mr. Hale—have complied. How can you expect to be treated as anything but civilians, if you insist on wearing civilian clothes?”

Uniform? It was the first Wiki had heard of it, though he now saw the reason why Mr. Hale had been wearing uniform for the jaunt to El Carmen. The rest of the scientific gentlemen were glancing at each other, obviously as ignorant as he was of the ruling. At the same time, they were shuffling uneasily, distancing themselves from Mr. Hale and Mr. Dana, and making a space around them that revealed that both were wearing the complete undress uniform of a lieutenant, though Wiki noticed that they did not have epaulettes.

The other scientific gentlemen, by contrast, were wearing broadcloth suits, some with shawl-collared long jackets, and others with swallowtail coats. Some even carried silk hats. Wiki thought they presented a most respectable appearance, considering the way most of them looked when they worked at their studies. One of the surgeons was infamous for appearing on deck in the old frock coat he'd used as a gown in the operating theater, which was so stiff with blood and pus that it could stand up by itself.

Their silence was uncomfortable in the extreme, and Captain Wilkes's expression was derisive. “Look at you! Look at the bloody lot of you!” he shouted. His infuriated stare shifted from face to face—and, for the first time, focused on Wiki.

“My God!”
he breathed. His eyes widened with utter incredulity. For a second, as everyone turned and looked at him, Wiki's mind went blank. Then he abruptly realized that it would have been a good idea to shed his bandanna and poncho before he entered the room.

Ten

At that awful moment Wiki was abruptly saved, by none other than Lieutenant Forsythe. The double doors swung open with a slam, revealing the burly figure of the notorious Virginian, looking even larger than usual because of the shining wet oilskins with which he was swathed. The ship executed a sharp pitch at the same second, and everyone hopped as a wash of dirty water came sweeping down the corridor and into the room.

“Compliments of Lieutenant Craven,” Forsythe barked.

“What is it?” said Captain Wilkes impatiently. Craven was the first lieutenant of the flagship, and therefore the most senior of his officers, and, it seemed, was currently in charge of the deck.

“The weather's kicking up and a dense fog is rolling in. Boats from the
Porpoise
and the
Peacock
are waiting alongside, sir, and he advises that if the scientifics want to get back to their ships, they'd better shift right now. And,” said Forsythe, his brows lifting high as he took in Wiki's appearance, “a cutter from the
Swallow
is here for Mr. Coffin, as well.”

The room emptied with remarkable suddenness. Some of the scientifics even shoved Forsythe to one side in their hurry, despite his fearsome reputation. Within two moments Wiki was alone with Captain Wilkes, while Forsythe waited restively by the door.

“I'd like to talk with you, sir,” he said. “I've got a lot to tell you about what happened on shore, and there are questions—”

“Tomorrow,” said Captain Wilkes impatiently. “I'll see you at four bells in the forenoon watch, and this time don't be so bloody late.”

Wiki hesitated, but was too wise to argue.

“And for God's sake, come looking more civilized!”

“Aye, sir,” said Wiki, and hastily followed Forsythe down the corridor.

“You're a beggar for punishment,” observed the southerner as the cutter hauled away from the flagship. “Why are you dressed up like one of the local desperadoes? He's right that you look bloody uncivilized! And what the hell do you want to talk to him for, anyway? About that thousand dollars you've been chasing up for a spouterman what was boneheaded enough to get himself sold a disappearin' schooner by a bloody rascal of a storekeeper?”

Wiki said glumly to all of this, “Aye.”

“Did you find anything?”

“The storekeeper's corpse.”

Forsythe's eyes widened at that. “Murdered by the thief?”

“Apparently.”

“And the schooner?”

“Sailed long since.”

“What about the thousand dollars? Gone too, you know not where?”

Wiki nodded, and Forsythe let out an irritating guffaw. “What kind of sleuth do you call yourself?”

This was depressingly like the previous day's conversation with Rochester. Instead of honoring the rhetorical question with an answer, Wiki said, “Thanks for the rescue.”

“Cap'n Rochester's orders.”

Captain
Rochester? Wiki was amazed that the word should come so naturally from the Virginian's lips. Never would he have believed that Forsythe would be so easygoing about being second-in-command to George; never would he have credited that switching a gold epaulette from one shoulder to another could make such a difference. Rochester's elevation had much greater significance than he could ever have guessed, he realized, particularly when it was remembered that Forsythe had been a lieutenant for God alone knew how long, while George had just attained that rank. Was it possible that the unlikely combination wasn't so disastrous, after all? Being acutely aware of his vast ignorance of the ways of the navy, Wiki did not have a notion, but was beginning to feel a touch of relief.

He said, “Is that why you made up that story about a fog coming in?”

Though the water was undercut with a nasty swell that pitched the boat in every direction, making Forsythe work hard at the tiller, the waves were no longer breaking, the wind had entirely died away, and the air was pristine. Mists were rising off the river, but certainly not the sea.

“It ain't made up—it's on the way.”

“How do you know that?”

“The bloody temperature's dropped, hasn't it? Ten degrees, or I'm a Dutchman.”

Wiki wondered why Forsythe thought fogs and drops in temperature were related, but then they arrived on board the
Swallow.
After the harrowing days he had spent on shore, it had all the connotations of arriving back home, complete with the wonderful smells of good food that wafted up from the cozy saloon with its welcoming table as he followed Forsythe down the companionway stairs.

There were two louvered doors on the larboard side of this mess room, leading to the mates' staterooms. Out of sheer habit, Wiki went to the sternmost one, which led to the abode of the first officer. He stopped himself just in time. When he turned round Forsythe was watching, his beefy tattooed arms folded, a malicious grin on his broad, red face.

With a rueful lift of an eyebrow, Wiki went to the second door, to find that though his sea chest was stowed neatly under the double bunk, his books and the broken pieces of his shelf, along with his lamp, had been tossed into a careless heap on the topmost berth. Well, at least it was the upper one, he thought—if Midshipman Keith had snared the top bunk in his absence, he would have had a foot planted in his face every time the young man got in or out of bed.

Carrying the pieces of his shelf, he went out on deck. Dark was falling and it was colder than ever. Rochester, on watch on the quarterdeck, was huddled in Stackpole's poncho. However, the steerage, where the carpenter, boatswain, sailmaker, gunner, cook, and steward lived, was cozy in the extreme. Braving the companionable fug of pipe smoke, Wiki borrowed a hammer and nails, and garnered a little advice in the carpentering way. Then, by the time he had his berth fixed up the way he liked it, and the tools were returned, suppertime was nigh.

As he briskly washed and changed into clean clothes, he could hear voices in the tiny pantry. One was Stoker, the steward, while the other was Robert Festin, their stowaway chef. The latter was easily distinguished because of his vocabulary, which was a weird combination of Abnaki Indian and the antique French of the remotest maritime provinces, plus English vulgarities learned from Forsythe, the rudest of kitchen Portuguese, and Maori phrases taught by Wiki himself. Festin was supposed to have left the fleet at Rio, having been trapped into a marriage arrangement, but he had stolen back on board the day before the wedding, and the crew of the
Swallow
had kept quiet about it because of his famous cooking.

When Wiki rejoined Forsythe in the saloon, Festin himself emerged from the pantry, a short, squat figure poised on spindly legs, his swarthy face stretched wide in a gap-toothed grin of delight. As Wiki knew well, though the cook was undoubtedly pleased to see him back, most of the joy was reserved for Forsythe, whom Festin adored, though the Virginian would have killed him without compunction if he'd suspected it. Having his idol permanently assigned to the
Swallow
was the pinnacle of delight.

Now he showed them the pan he carried, saying smugly, “Bloody good,” in English, and repeating it in
te reo Maori
with a resounding,
“Kapai!”

Kapai
indeed, thought Wiki, because the crisply crusted, fragrant dish certainly promised to be scrumptious. He headed for the forward end of the table, where there was a small bench set against the foot of the mainmast, swung a leg over it, and sat down. Forsythe eased his bulk on to the bench to the starboard side, and both men watched with deep attention as Festin filled their plates with his delicious version of the traditional seaman's lobscouse. Because he liked to watch Festin cooking, Wiki knew that the Acadian concocted this particular dish by soaking broken ship's hard bread in fresh water until soft, draining the result, and mixing it with succulent fillets of boneless fresh fish. Piled into the pan and topped with scraps of crisply fried salt pork, it was then baked in the oven until golden on top.

Leaving the half-full pan in the pantry, Festin headed up to the galley on the foredeck, to serve out the same delicacy to the crew, the
Swallow
being a democratic vessel where the men ate the same fare as the officers. In the saloon silence reigned, save for hungry eating noises. Finally Forsythe leaned back, took a huge slurp from his coffee mug, and said with every evidence of lively interest, “So there's a murderer running loose, huh?”

George Rochester clattered down the companionway stairs, sat in the captain's armchair at the sternward end of the table, and surveyed the filled plate the steward carried in with an appreciative eye. Evidently having overheard Forsythe, he observed to Wiki, “You were extraordinarily lucky to find
rastreadores
in your moment of need, old chap.”

“Find
what
?” said Forsythe. Wiki explained about the
rastreadores,
while the southerner listened with deep attention. Having helped Wiki with some sleuthing in the past, he had come to pride himself on his astuteness, as Wiki knew to his cost. “Tracks?” he said at the end. “What kinda tracks?”