A Watery Grave (32 page)

Wiki could just discern the open gunports and imagine the short muzzles of the carronades. The snout of the starboard chaser was poking over the rail at the quarter.

He spun round and exclaimed, “They mustn't fire—we have to stop the exercise!”

Lieutenant Smith went redder in the face than ever, his little eyes popping. “What's that?”

“We must stop them firing those guns—before someone is killed!”
Unless George is already dead.
Wiki thrust the thought away.

Forsythe's hoarse drawl inquired, “And how exactly, Mr. Deputy Coffin, are we going to manage to do that?”

“Signal them!”

“I doubt they'll take a single damn moment's notice of any signals we might fly.”

“Lower a boat,” Wiki said desperately. “Get the boat between the cannon and the target.”

“You're insane, Mr. Coffin!” snapped Lieutenant Smith. “You propose frustrating a naval exercise on the basis of a wild whim!”

“And who do you think will be brave enough to get between a loaded cannon and its target?” queried Forsythe, with unabated amusement, paying no attention whatsoever to his apoplectic second-in-command.

“Volunteers,” Wiki looked around, sorting out names in his head. Sua and Jack Savvy would be with him, he was certain. Then he looked at Forsythe, and said, “Lower a boat. When Captain Wilkes holds an inquiry, I'll accept all the responsibility.”

“You got a reason for this?” said the southerner, his expression cynically entertained. “Or are you jest tryin' to be a pain in Stanton's arse—seeing this exercise was all his idea?”

A drum was rattling out on the
Vincennes,
heard only in faint scraps at that distance, but still identifiable as a beating to quarters. All too vividly, Wiki could picture Captain Wilkes standing on the poop, his speaking trumpet at the ready.

He said desperately, “If that barrel is sunk, the only evidence that John Burroughs was the man at the Newport News banquet will be lost. Tristram Stanton's got rid of everyone else. He murdered Burroughs by snapping his neck, just as he snapped Ophelia's, except he managed to pass it off as suicide. Then he got rid of Powell by knocking him on the head and putting him in the target barrel! That's how he got rid of the corpse!”

“That's accusation without a shred of evidence!” shouted Lieutenant Smith. “It has been bad enough listening to the wild slanders you have made against Astronomer Stanton—which I will
certainly
report—but for a civilian to bear a hand in the affairs of the ship—”

“Why, what gives you that idea?” said Forsythe to Wiki, looking interested.

“The sharks! The sharks that came all about after the last exercise! Don't you remember them? They were drawn by the blood in the water!”

“I cannot allow this!” Lieutenant Smith cried. “Lieutenant Forsythe, order the bo'sun to take charge of this man!”

“You call me
captain
while you're on board my goddamned ship!” barked Forsythe. Then he looked at Wiki and nodded. “Lower a boat,” he said. “Call for volunteers.”

“Captain Forsythe, I protest most strenuously! If you value your career—”

“Oh, do shut up, you noisy little bugger,” said Forsythe, and put a large hand in the middle of the taut little paunch and shoved. Lieutenant Smith staggered backward and sat down on the deck abruptly, but Forsythe was not even looking. Instead, he brushed his palms together, as if to get rid of dirt.

Wiki looked back at the distant
Vincennes.
To his horror he glimpsed activity behind one of the gunports as a carronade was run out. The exercise had commenced. He spun on his heel, shouting names.

Men seemed to take an age to listen and comprehend what was needed, but then all at once they were at the starboard rail and the boat was down. Even as it splashed, there was a distant concussion from the flagship. Wiki watched tensely, his breath held as the ball soared over the target and hit the water farther on. The barrel was bobbing hard, bouncing up and down as if some great fish was nudging it from beneath the surface.

Abruptly, then, Wiki realized that Forsythe was beside him—carrying a rifle. Not one of Stanton's, but his own favorite weapon. “I'm coming,” the southerner said shortly. Wiki paused, but there was no time to argue. Then, on a sudden impulse, he dashed across the deck to the signal locker, grabbed a flag, ran back to the rail, and vaulted into the boat.

As the oarsmen hauled at their oars, another thudding explosion sounded from the
Vincennes.

Twenty-six

Captain Wilkes hollered, “Silence fore and aft!”

Midshipman Keith rubbed his palms down the sides of his trousers to wipe off the sweat. The preliminary orders to wet and sand the decks and cast loose the guns, after removing their tompions and muzzle bags, had been heard and followed long since. There had been five dumb practice exercises, and now the live show was about to commence.

Keith was determined that his gun crew—Passed Midshipman Rochester's gun crew—was not going to let the missing officer down. They had won the competition before, and they were going to hit that target again. His five tackle men had clapped onto the ropes and run the gun carriage inboard, and now they stared at him with resolute expressions that reflected how he felt. One of the scientifics, Astronomer Stanton, seemed to feel the same confidence, too, because he was standing close by, watching every preparation with narrow attention.

Midshipman Keith started to bawl out the next order, stopped when his voice threatened to squeak, and then said gruffly, “Chock your luff!”

The ship was barely moving on the flat calm of the sea, so the men at the tackles simply braced their shoulders to maintain tension on the carriage.

“Stop vent!”

The captain of the gun leaned over the breech and placed a piece of leather over the touch hole.

“Cartridge!”

The powder boy fished about in his leathern bucket, produced a cylindrical bag of gunpowder, and heaved it across to the loader, who swung it around and shoved it up the barrel.

“Wad and ram home!”

The rammer inserted a wad and pushed it up the maw of the cannon as far as it would go. The captain of the gun bent over again to poke his priming iron through the breech and wiggle it. Looking up at Midshipman Keith, he said gravely, “Home, sir!”

“Grape, I think—don't you?” asked Keith. A democratic fellow, he had decided on a program of building camaraderie by consulting with his men.

“Aye, sir, most certainly, sir! Let's blast that barrel to smithereens!”

“Then make it so,” said Midshipman Keith, and watched the loader heave up the bag of grape and shove it down the barrel. “Ram home!” he cried, and the rammer leaped forward with his wad and rammer again.

“Man side-tackle falls, run out!” The two side-tackle men hauled mightily at the ropes, running the gun up to the rail and forcing out the snout as far as it would go. Squinting along the brute length of it, Midshipman Keith fixed his eye on the target—which was bobbing up and down in a highly uncooperative fashion, considering the flatness of the sea—and cried, “Crows and handspikes!”

During the exercises he had kept the muzzle of the cannon aimed at the surface about two hundred yards off, guessing that that was where the target would be, and so there was not a great deal of heaving and hauling necessary. The chaser, in fact, was primed and aimed for action in a satisfyingly short time. However, to the gun crew's intense irritation, the other chaser had the first shot. Midshipman Keith heard hurried footsteps as Astronomer Stanton went across with his spyglass to check their aim, followed by Captain Wilkes's shout, “Number six!”—followed by a great boom from the far side of the deck.

To the gun crew's satisfaction, however, the shot soared over the target and then bounced and sank. Astronomer Stanton arrived back at Midshipman Keith's side and said, “Quite a few degrees high. Do you think you should lower your sights, officer?”

“Sir, I think we are fine,” said Keith firmly, disliking interference from a civilian, and wondering why he was taking such an active part.

Stanton's reply, if he made one, was muffled by Captain Wilkes's shout, “Number four!” A carronade hurled its charge, but, because the
Vincennes
ducked a sudden curtsey as a gust of wind came out of nowhere to slap the sails briefly full, the shot was well wide of the target.

Astronomer Stanton said sharply, “Bring your bearings round, Midshipman. Make allowance for the movement of the ship.”

Midshipman Keith said coldly, “I beg your pardon, sir?”

“Don't you want to win? There's a gold guinea for each man of your gun crew if you blow that barrel to pieces.”

“Number seven!” roared Captain Wilkes's amplified voice.

Keith's crew spat on their palms and braced their shoulders, enlivened still further by the prospect of a bounty. However, the midshipman was frowning, wondering about the astronomer's urgency.

“Take your time, my lads,” he said.

“But you must take advantage of the lull!” Astronomer Stanton urged as the puff of wind died. “Tell your captain to cock the lock and prime the charge, sir! I will double the bounty if you smash it first shot!”

Keith stared at him, acutely aware that the gun crew was fidgeting with impatience, and that the whole ship was watching and waiting. Then, from beyond the astronomer's head, he glimpsed a movement, a half mile out.

“Hulloa,” he said, going to the rail to see better. A boat was pulling out from the little brig
Swallow,
her men pulling at the oars with evident frenzy. Obviously, it was not part of the stated program, because Keith could see Captain Wilkes and the First Lieutenant conferring while they aimed their spyglasses, and hear stray bits of their conversation, which betrayed that they were as mystified as he was.

Astronomer Stanton said sharply, “The exercise has not been cancelled, Midshipman Keith. It is your turn to fire, and your captain expects you to do your duty.”

He was right, Keith thought unwillingly. He turned to the gun captain and said, his voice reluctant, “Cock your lock, if you will.”

The gun captain poured priming powder over the vent with the aid of a goose quill, but Keith's eyes kept on moving away from him and back to the boat. It had become evident that it was not steering for the
Vincennes,
as he had originally thought, but was making for the barrel target. Even more oddly, despite the fact that there was scarcely any breeze, one of the men in the boat was stepping the mast.

Click. It was a small sound, but loud enough to seize Keith's attention. When he looked back at the cannon the captain had pulled back the hammer. His eyes met Midshipman Keith's and held an attentive stare, his whole frame poised as he held the string of the firing lanyard in his hand, ready for the igniting pull.

“Blow your match,” said Keith to the loader.

“You don't need the match,” Astronomer Stanton exclaimed. “Give the order to pull!”

“Routine, sir, must be followed,” said Midshipman Keith, carefully keeping reprimand out of his tone. While he watched the slow fuse smolder red as the loader blew gently, just in case the flintlock did not catch, his eyes kept on flickering over to the boat. The mast was up, and a bundle of brilliant fabric was being bent to it. It might as well have been a sail because no sooner was it attached than another gust of wind flicked up and the cloth billowed out.

It was a flag—the ensign of the United States! Everyone was staring in puzzlement, and Keith could hear muttered exclamations and queries from all about the deck.

“Fire!” exclaimed Astronomer Stanton—and Keith whirled round. For an instant he thought that the gun captain would obey the civilian, simply because of the authorative snap in his voice. But a loud cry from the quarterdeck distracted the gunner, so he looked around instead of yanking on the cord.

Captain Wilkes had an arm out, pointing at the main truck of the brig
Swallow,
and all the heads on deck were turned to see what the agitation was about. A signal was being hoisted—a signal that Keith had never seen before, a blue triangle with a rectangular cutout in the middle of the hoist.

Captain Wilkes and the First Lieutenant were equally perplexed, it seemed, because the quartermaster was being summoned. Hurried footsteps rattled over the quarterdeck and books were being consulted.

Then, with a shock, Keith felt his upper arm gripped. He swung around to find Stanton's heavy, furious face close to his. The astronomer snapped, “When the hell are you going to order them to fire that goddamned gun?”

“Sir, I—”

Keith stopped. A voice echoed from the quarterdeck, saying, “The signal reads that the brig
Swallow
is endangered, sir—but from what cause, it is impossible to—”

Astronomer Stanton shouted in Midshipman Keith's ear, “Give the order to … FIRE!”

The last word was barked out like a command. Midshipman Keith swung around, again afraid that the gun captain had automatically obeyed. But, instead, he saw the gun captain staring at him questioningly, the firing lanyard in his hand.

Keith could see his fingers whitening as he got ready to pull. He shouted, “Belay that!”

Humiliatingly, his voice squeaked, but the gun captain had heard, and his instinctive movement had frozen. The next blur of motion came from a completely unexpected quarter. Astronomer Stanton sprung forward, knocked the slow match out of the loader's startled hand, and grabbed it up. Then he made a lunge at the breech of the gun.

Midshipman Keith broke out of a paralysis of disbelief and threw himself at the burly form to grapple him away. He was young, tall, and strong, but Stanton had the strength of panic. Back and forth they struggled, and then unbelievable pain surged through Keith's shoulder as the astronomer gripped his upper arm and wrenched. Keith heard an appalling pop as the upper bone of his arm left the socket, and then all at once he was flying through the air and over the rail.