A Watery Grave (24 page)

“No?” Then Wiki snapped, at the end of his patience, “So why did you tell me lies?”

“Lies!” shouted Forsythe. Then he looked around and lowered his voice. “I've told you no goddamn lies,” he hissed. “That two-faced swab Jim Powell is the liar, not me—why don't you try badgering
him
for a change?”

“Yet you tried to convince me that your cousin Ophelia was suicidal—when the whole of Virginia knew she was planning to divorce her husband.”

Forsythe went red in the face. “She
was
suicidal! Divorce was my idea, not hers!”

“What?”

“I told you! I had nothin' to gain by her death! But there surely was hope if she filed for divorce, because then the family money would be back where it rightfully belonged. You can ask the whole of Virginia if you like, because I was perfectly open about it. But she was besotted with the bugger. The more he treated her like shit, the more she was convinced the sun shone out of his arse.
I'm
the one who tried to talk some sense into her stupid skull. Right from the first time that string-shanked turd reduced her to a wet, weeping rag, I tried to convince her that divorce was the only answer. Why do you think the Stantons hated me so? It wasn't just that I kept on askin' her for money—which was money made by
our
family, not the bloody Stantons, remember! Why do you think the old bastard threw me out?”

“Dear God,” Wiki said. “And yet you still live,” he marveled. Remembering the snarl of animal-like hatred and fury that had twisted old man Stanton's face, he shook his head in wonder.

Then he was brought up short by the sound of the
Vincennes
firing a gun. When he looked over the expanse of water, the flag on the distant peak was at half-mast. Wiki's first confused thought was that the flagship was under attack—or that they were staging another live exercise. Then the faint echoes of three volleys clattered over the water, and he realized that it was a burial.

“Who died?” he involuntarily asked.

“Is that some more of your goddamn cross-examination?” Forsythe demanded savagely. “Wa-al, just for your information, I haven't the foggiest. It's just some poor bloody little tar on the
Vin
who lost the number of his mess.”

Wiki went quite still, the conversation with George Rochester back in his mind, suddenly imbued with new meaning. He said softly, “What did you say?”

Forsythe didn't reply. Instead, his eyes shifted to look over Wiki's shoulder, and his expression became completely blank.

And a vaguely familiar voice from behind Wiki said in hearty tones, “The poor fellow lost the number of his mess—he slipped his cable—he's taken his
nunc dimittis.
Isn't it amazing, the words that navy tars employ to indicate departure from this world of life? It's as if even sailors—the most forthright of men!—can't bring themselves to simply say,
he's dead.
”

Wiki turned, to see the florid face of Wilkes's friend—the amateur philologist, Lieutenant Lawrence J. Smith, and wondered what the devil was going on. Before he could even start to ask, however, the steward's bell rang for supper, and Smith's hand grasped his arm, urging him toward the companionway stairs.

“The poor lad expired of the dysentery—a maintopman, they told me, and a capital fellow—a loss, a loss to his ship. You were surprised by the phrase ‘lost the number of his mess?'”

“I've heard someone say something similar—just recently,” said Wiki. “And I must confess I didn't know what it meant, not being a navy man, you see.”
So Powell was dead.
The hairs on the back of Wiki's neck lifted as he remembered the Rotuman's eerie chant—and the glimpse of mortal terror in Jim's eyes as the surgeon and the loblolly boys had arrived to take him to the sick bay.

“There are a few other cases of the bloody flux on board the
Vincennes,
” Lieutenant Smith rattled on as they arrived in the saloon at the bottom of the companionway. “Captain Wilkes confided to me that he's a trifle concerned for the general health of the ship, though the surgeon assures him the others will recover. Suspicions are that the saucy fellows stole a little pig from the pigpen and overindulged in their illicit dinner.”

“I wonder how they cooked it,” said Wiki absently.

He swung a leg over his usual bench at the foot of the table and sat down. Forsythe, his face still blank, arrived down the stairs and slumped into the chair at the head, while Smith perched on the bench where Passed Midshipman Kingman customarily sat. Wiki thought that he hadn't seen Kingman anywhere about the decks, and wondered again what was going on. He looked at Forsythe, but the southerner had his head down, moodily shoveling meat into his mouth that he had taken straight off the dish in the middle of the table.

“Bribed the cook without a doubt,” said Smith, as he forked salt beef without a qualm. “The men save up their grog to trade for food or tobacco, or for bribing their fellows—the ration is far, far, far too generous! In fact there should be no grog issued at all! I truly believe, Wiremu, that the day that temperance rules the U.S. Navy will be a blessed one indeed.”

“I'm sure you are right,” said Wiki. What he could see of Forsythe's face was sour with disgust.

“Of course I am, Wiremu, of course I am right! The ration simply panders to depraved tastes. Did you hear about the man who almost met his end during that mishap aloft? That when he recovered his senses his first words were to inquire after his grog? And that the wicked fellow cursed the surgeon when he ordered that none should be given? Shocking, Wiremu, shocking!”

Wiki paused, wondering if Lieutenant Smith was aware of Forsythe's role in that mishap. Then he observed, “You use the Maori version of my American name.”

“
Wiremu
for William? You told me that yourself, dear lad—yourself!—when you were a child, at the same time that I told you my hobby was words. It was then that I learned from you that word games were a popular pastime in your village back home. Tell me, is that still the case—that the New Zealand people keep their minds alert by playing with words?”

“Proverbs will always be part of the orator's craft, along with great knowledge of the traditional
karakia,
” said Wiki, but his thoughts were not focused on the traditional chants. He asked, “Has it ever been known for naval officers to write poems?”

“But of course!” cried Lieutenant Smith. “In fact, I encourage poetical talent in my midshipmen! Not only does it serve to fill many hours of idleness at sea, but it keeps the mind alert. Indeed, every officer should apply himself to the pursuit. In the old days, you know, there was space in the
Naval Chronicle
for odes composed at sea. What a pity the custom has lapsed!”

Wiki wondered if Forsythe had ever been poetically inspired in his midshipman days, but instantly dismissed the thought as being even more unlikely than a versifying astronomer—something that was immediately confirmed by a muted snort of disgust from the head of the table, proving that despite all appearances Forsythe was still awake.

“What about scientifics?” he pursued. “Is it at all known for them to compose odes to science?”

“Of course! Attention to the arts as well as the sciences is the mark of a truly elevated mind. It was a mark of the greatness of the Renaissance.”

“I see,” said Wiki slowly, understanding with a sense of surprise that Burroughs might not have been so eccentric after all. Still deep in thought, he took up his fork. Silence descended as they ate—and silence was something that Lieutenant Smith found uncomfortable, it seemed, because it quickly became obvious that he was hunting for another topic of conversation.

His brow lightened. “Your escape from the rigors of the storm was truly providential, Wiremu. When we lost sight of three members of our fleet, we feared the very worst! When the
Porpoise
signaled that the dear little
Swallow
had rejoined the fleet, the relief was general, as a sign that soon, with the blessing of providence, we will be reunited with the others, too. It was a miracle, even, that you found us in the midst of the empty seas—and a great concern that the captains of the
Peacock
and the
Sea Gull
have not achieved the same as yet.”

“Ah,” said Wiki wisely, “but we were fortunate enough to hear the sounds of firing. We didn't know which way to steer, not until we heard the first explosions.”

“Truly?” said the lieutenant, looking impressed. “Well, then, it was most fortunate that we were holding the exercise!” he exclaimed. “Which means you owe a particular debt to our good friend Astronomer Stanton.”

At that Forsythe lifted his head to look at Smith, his expression surprised, and Wiki's own eyebrows were high.

“It's extreme' unusual for a scientific to be allowed to take any part in the routine maneuvers of the fleet, as you know,” Smith expounded, looking gratified at their sudden attention. “But when Mr. Stanton observed to Captain Wilkes that the flat calm was a capital opportunity for exercising the guns, remarking at the same time that it would reinvigorate the crew after the stress of the storm, Captain Wilkes thought it a famous idea. And when Astronomer Stanton suggested that it should climax with some live firing with a barrel as a target—which he volunteered to organize, with the cooperation of the cooper—accompanied by a competition to put the gun crews on their mettle, that was adopted as an excellent notion, too.”

“Then I guess we were indeed very fortunate,” Wiki conceded. However, he was frowning. This further evidence that Stanton had great influence with Captain Wilkes made him feel very uncomfortable.

“But, of course, the greatest blessing is that the
Swallow
survived at all—which she only did because of her captain's foresight, as Lieutenant Forsythe confided to both Captain Wilkes and me, after we pressed him for details. It is yet another testimony to the fact that whatever doubt or danger may beset us, the firm and gallant spirit that is characteristic of American navy officers will hold firm and prevail—as it will prevail, too, on the quarterdecks of the
Peacock
and
Sea Gull.
”

Wiki put down his fork and glanced at Forsythe's blank expression. Then, deliberately, he turned to face Lieutenant Smith, contemplating him over the rim of his mug as he meditatively drank tea. So the burly figure he had glimpsed in the boat pulling from the
Vincennes
to the
Swallow
had been Forsythe—back from delivering a highly embellished and self-serving report of the
Swallow
's adventures. Forsythe's jaws revolved stolidly, but the tension in the burly shoulders was perceptible enough to convey that he was unhappy with the way the conversation was going.

“Hearing Captain Forsythe's report of how he got the ship snugged well beforehand was an enormous pleasure to both of us,” Smith enthused on, completely oblivious to the atmosphere. “We were quite convinced that without his prudence the first great gust would have brought the brig aback!”

So, Wiki realized, Forsythe had laid on the soft soap with a vengeance. And this was the reason, he mused, that the southerner had been so anxious to see him off the brig before Lieutenant Smith had a chance to engage him in conversation.

Feeling both amused and angry, he asked blandly, “And he also told you about the providential escape of the bo'sun?”

“Indeed, we heard about it—twice! We summoned the bo'sun to hear the details from his very own lips, and a stirring story he made of it, too.”

So, Wiki understood, the boatswain had been in the party that rowed Forsythe to the flagship. He wondered what else the independent old fellow had told Wilkes. Very little, he thought—the old salt was too wise a sailor to stir up trouble with his superiors.

“Would you believe me, Wiremu,” Lieutenant Smith was burbling on, “if I told you I once served on a ship where the exact same thing happened? The chap who was washed overboard was washed back again on the crest of the following wave, just as in your bo'sun's case. The captain ordered that he should be given a glass of grog, and the sailor—being a seaman—drank it down in a single draft; but after he had quaffed it he confessed that he couldn't understand why the old man had been so generous. When informed of his miraculous escape, he was astounded—it had all happened so smoothly and suddenly that he was quite unaware of having been overboard at all!”

“Great heavens!” exclaimed Wiki, suitably astonished. Then he observed, “I'm sure Captain Forsythe also talked about our debt to the Samoans in our crew.”

Forsythe looked up. Wiki met his poisonous stare with a faint smile and then returned his attention to Lieutenant Smith. “Your Kanakas?” Smith asked. His eyes were blinking as he looked from Wiki to Forsythe, and he seemed rather at a loss.

“Aye,” said Wiki, and smiled blandly. “They sensed the storm long before it arrived—as is common. More than once I've been on an American whaleship that was saved by the Kanakas' knowledge of the stars, the currents, the flight patterns of birds, and the winds.”

“Fascinating,” said Smith, after a small hesitation, his eyes still flickering back and forth between Forsythe and Wiki. “And these—Samoans gave warning of what to expect?”

“Well, I had to translate,” Wiki amended. “They spoke their native language in their panic.”

“Which is natural, I suppose,” said Smith, sounding more doubtful than ever.

“I've since been informed that it's against regulations to talk in their own tongue. Is it really Captain Wilkes's policy that English should be the only language of the fleet? If that is the case, as the expedition's official linguister, I would be forced to make a strong protest.”