Shark Island (10 page)

Again it was a relief to emerge into the bright, late sunshine. Looking around, Wiki saw George Rochester on the quarterdeck talking to Joel Hammond. George had a box under his arm—perhaps the same box of ship's papers that Wiki had noticed on the table in the captain's cabin. When he saw Wiki, he lifted his free hand in salute. Annabelle was nowhere in sight, so Wiki deduced that Forsythe's peremptory advice had been followed, and the corpse had been removed and the cabin cleaned up.

He turned to Alphabet and asked, “Have you always sailed for Ezekiel Reed?”

“Hell, no. I started out as a clerk—went to sea as a supercargo—tried out life as a ship's agent in various ports.” Alphabet Green sighed, and said, “But it all came to naught. I ended up the way you see me, at work on my cousin-in-law's sinking schooner.”

The bitterness was understandable, thought Wiki. A supercargo was an important man who sailed with all the privileges of a passenger, and was in charge of selling and buying cargoes in port. For Green, ending up as a seaman was indeed a failure—and all the more so if he'd got the job only because he was cousin to the captain's wife.

He said rather awkwardly, “Ezekiel's death must be a terrible loss to you.”

“It's a blow for just about everyone on board the
Annawan.
”

Wiki wondered what he meant, and then remembered that sealers, like whalemen, were very superstitious. “Was he considered a lucky skipper?”

“He made a lot of money for a lot of people, including himself,” Alphabet said dryly.

“So what will happen now?”

Alphabet shrugged, looked down at the deck, and said, “I expect the
Annawan
will founder within the next few days, and somehow the
Swallow
will get us all to Rio.”

Again, Wiki was conscious of the heavy wallowing feel beneath his feet. Alphabet could indeed be right—the schooner could be in such terrible shape that George would be forced to take the entire complement of the
Annawan
on board the
Swallow
and ferry them to the nearest civilized port. It was only what the U.S. Navy would have expected of any of their officers in similar circumstances, he knew, but nonetheless he disliked the idea extremely.

He remembered how crowded the decks of the
Swallow
had seemed as the two boats' crews had boarded, and how threatened he'd felt, and exclaimed angrily, “The
Peacock
reported your ship as a pirate because no one even
tried
to signal the ship. Hammond told us that the fort is nothing more than a ruined prison, but Captain Hudson of the
Peacock
didn't know that—because no one bothered to contact him. I can't understand why Ezekiel Reed didn't send a boat after the
Peacock
—or fly a signal of distress, even. It seems so brainless!”

There was a pause while Alphabet stared into the distance, his eyes narrow and his expression grimly withdrawn. Then he said with distinct bitterness, “Nothing he has ever done could be a fraction as brainless as bringing his wife to sea.”

Ten

When Wiki left the schooner in the brig's boat with George, the sounds of the
Annawan
seemed normal, almost. There were men at work in the rigging, and a pumping gang forward of the mainmast. After a moment Wiki could hear the thudding of the pumps at work again. The air was rent with loud hammer blows as someone worked on a coffin.

Then they were off, and the echoes gradually faded. The late afternoon light glittered on the surface of the water, and the shape of the ruined fort at the top of the cliff was black as the sun lowered behind it. The cutter followed them out to the brig, but, after pausing so Forsythe could scramble on board the
Swallow,
the big boat veered off and headed for a cove at the far side of a rock fall from the beach where the sloop had been wrecked.

Rochester didn't comment on this for a moment or two, instead checking the state of the brig with Midshipman Keith, who was all importance at having been left in sole charge. Then he turned to Forsythe, who had his fists propped on his belt and was scowling as he watched his cutter disappear, and said mildly, “What's up?”

“Sent her off with Zack Kingman in charge to set up camp on the beach,” the southerner replied. “Seems the best idea, if we're goin' to be here a while.”

Rochester nodded. Indeed, it was an excellent idea. Provided with a couple of bags of flour and biscuit, the cutter's men could fend for themselves and live much more comfortably than when crowded on the brig—and it did seem likely that they would be here quite a while, unless the schooner foundered in the night.

“You're not going with them?” he inquired.

Forsythe said expressionlessly, “In an hour or so I'm heading back to the
Annawan
with Zack. We've been invited to the wake, seeing as we was acquainted with the deceased. After that, I'll go to the camp on the beach.”

Acquainted?
That was an odd way of phrasing it, Wiki thought, and still wondered why Forsythe was here, instead of with the cutter. George looked both intrigued and startled, but was too well bred to make any remark, instead heading for the companionway and shouting out for the steward of the
Swallow.
This fellow, a long, lugubrious man from Maine by the name of Stoker, was what George often labeled a
gem:
not only was everything neat and clean in the small saloon, but the coffee that swiftly arrived was ambrosial. Platters of sliced cold meats, hot baked beans, and warm new bread followed, and Rochester, Wiki, and Forsythe settled to their places about the table, leaving young Keith still in charge of the deck.

“Now,” said Rochester to the lieutenant, “I've only heard Joel Hammond's version so far, so you'd better tell me what happened.”

“Version of what?” Forsythe said cagily.

“The murder.”

“I don't know any more than he does—except that I saw the corpse before he did. Wiki can tell you all about that, because he was there, too.”

“Perhaps if you started at the beginning,” George said patiently. “What happened when you arrived at the schooner? What was Captain Reed like?”

Forsythe shrugged, thought, chewed, and then said, “He was damn pleased to see us, at first. Hailed us as his saviors.”

“I'm not surprised!”

“Then he complained that we should've arrived four weeks ago.”

Rochester frowned. “But the
Annawan
has been here just a couple of days.”

“Aye, but that sloop—
Hero
—lying up there on the beach belonged to Captain Reed, too. According to what he said, she was attacked by privateers about a month ago, which was when she was wrecked, and so he heartily wished that we had been here then.”

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.”