Deadly Shoals (22 page)

“Of a train of packhorses, and a horseman who followed them. The tracks led up the Río Negro to where salt from the inland
salinas
is piled in dunes. All the provisions in Adams's store had been taken away, so it's reasonable to guess that the packhorses were carrying them to the schooner, which was anchored there at the time, loading salt.”

“But that's bloody stupid!” Forsythe exclaimed. “Why not sail the vessel back to the village after the salt had been loaded, and collect the goods there? That would've made a damn sight more sense!”

Wiki said, “I agree.”

“Wa'al, the only sensible explanation is that they must've been in a helluva hurry.”

Surprised, Wiki echoed, “Hurry?”

“Yup. They was prime anxious to get her loaded and out to sea afore the spouterman come back for his purchase.”

Wiki blinked. “You're right!” he exclaimed. “That's why they forgot the deed!”

“Deed? What deed?”

Wiki described finding the deed of sale for the
Grim Reaper,
then added, “That's why Adams's killer stayed behind when the schooner sailed.”

The Virginian stared, and then said, “Stayed behind? But that's bloody insane! What gives you that crazy idea?”

“The same day we found Adams's body—which was at least a week after Adams was killed—someone killed his clerk, and stole the deed of sale.”

Dead silence. Rochester was staring at Wiki with the same riveted expression as Forsythe. Then he said, “
Another
murder, old chap?”

“Aye,” said Wiki, and told them about the discovery of the body, adding, “Adams and his clerk were both knifed the same way—brutally, in the chest.”

“There's a lot of that going on in South America,” Forsythe pointed out wisely.

“I'm sure there is,” agreed Wiki. “However, it seems a good reason to believe that Adams and his clerk were killed by the same man.”

The southerner's tone became derisive. “You reckon the storekeeper's killer missed the boat because he wanted to get hold of that bill of sale, but then hung around for seven or more days before he finally got around to knifing the clerk?”

Wiki winced. “Presumably he realized then that he needed the bill of sale so he could claim legal ownership of the schooner.”

“But the bloody schooner was gone!”

Wiki sighed. “I know.”

Forsythe's expression became pitying. “And you're goin' to tell Wilkes this in the morning, even though it don't make a single bit of sense?”

“Aye,” Wiki admitted, and wondered yet again if Captain Stackpole had changed his mind and approached the expedition commodore. Reminded of the tirade in the chartroom of the
Vincennes,
he changed the subject, saying, “Did you know that the scientifics are supposed to wear lieutenant's undress uniform?”

Forsythe exclaimed, “Bloody
what
?”

“According to Captain Wilkes, since the scientific corps mess with the wardroom officers, they should dress like them, too.”

The southerner went red in the face. “I worked for goddamned years for the honor of wearing lieutenant's uniform!” he barked. “And a bunch of bastards what do nothin' but make observations and clutter up ships with smelly specimens get the same privilege? It's a bloody injustice!”

“I couldn't agree more, old chap!” echoed George. “How would they like it if I claimed to be a fellow of one of their prestigious colleges without having earned it? I went to Harvard to look up some legal papers once, but does that qualify me for the mortarboard and gown?”

“Absolutely bloody right!” said Forsythe.

Never had Wiki seen the two men in such accord—and now he could see, too, why the scientifics had looked so uneasy. They, unlike the expedition commander, understood the resentment it would cause among the officers. It was one of the many ill-conceived Navy Department decisions that made Captain Wilkes's job even harder.

George said to him, “I assume that includes you, old chap. Do you even
own
a lieutenant's undress uniform?”

“Of course not,” Wiki said, adding, “And I wouldn't wear it if I did.”

“Bloody wise,” opined Forsythe. “Natives dressed up in white men's ceremonial rig look more like goddamned savages than ever.”

Wiki and George cast him equally impatient looks. Wiki said, “That reminds me—have either of you heard that there's another New Zealand Maori with the expedition?”

They both shook their heads.

“The philologist, Horatio Hale, said there's a Maori chief on the
Peacock
.”

“Chief?” said Forsythe, and snorted with derisive amusement. “I bet they call him somethin' different back home.”

“The trouble,” said Wiki very seriously, “is that they call him ‘Ngati Porou.'”

He looked at Forsythe, wondering if he would understand. About the year 1828, a couple of years after Wiki had been carried off to New England, the Virginian had hired himself out to a chief of Wiki's own tribe, Ngapuhi, as a mercenary in their ongoing war against the Ngati Porou. While Wiki had not been there at the time, he had heard often from Forsythe how he had marched the forest warpaths and voyaged on
waka taua
—canoes of war—and how his advice had helped the Ngapuhi warriors win the battle. In Wiki's candid opinion, the basic reason the Ngati Porou had lost was not the expertise of men like Forsythe, but because the Ngapuhi had been armed with the guns they had gained through barter with American and English whalers and traders, while the Ngati Porou fought with traditional weapons.

The Virginian did see the implications of the other man's tribal affinity: the Ngati Porou had harbored a deadly grudge against the Ngapuhi ever since, attributing their defeat to treachery, and would grasp any chance for revenge.

He grinned evilly. “What's the name of this bastard what's going to kill you first chance he gets?”

“They call him Jack Sac, but I believe his Maori name is Te Aute.”

“How long ago did he leave New Zealand?”

“Horatio Hale said he'd been in America for the past ten years.”

“Then there's a chance he witnessed one or other of the battles between your tribe and his,” Forsythe decided. “If he's old enough, he might even have taken part.”

“Exactly,” said Wiki. They both looked up to the wall at the top of the companionway, where Rochester stowed his pistol, musket, and dress sword on hooks. Now, Forsythe's rifle hung there, too. Alongside it was the
taiaha
—a traditional quarterstaff—that Wiki had made, and a greenstone club, a prestigious
mere pounamu
Forsythe had looted from one of the Ngati Porou chiefs he had killed.

“If I was you, I'd steer bloody well wide of the
Peacock,
” he said.

“The same thought occurred to me,” said Wiki.

This dire conversation was interrupted by a ruckus out on deck as a boat arrived, and then Midshipman Keith scampered noisily down the companionway. He looked extremely chilled, his lanky form huddled in coats and scarves, though his face was burned red by the wind.

“Food!” he exclaimed, snuffing the air like a puppy.

They all looked at the door of the pantry, the domain of Stoker, the
Swallow
's gem of a steward, who could be relied on to do something about it. When he emerged, however, Stoker said reprovingly, “Mr. Keith, I thought you was messing on the
Porpoise
while the survey is a-going along.”

“I was,” the lad admitted. He folded himself onto the larboard bench at Rochester's left hand, cast off about a dozen garments, and helped himself to coffee.

“So, if I asked you,” went on the steward severely, “would you persist in trying to give us all the strong impression that you haven't eaten supper already?”

“You greedy dog!” George exclaimed, without waiting for whatever answer Constant Keith might fabricate. “And you've been drinking too—admit it! You smell of claret, you wicked young man!”

“Claret?” said Forsythe alertly. “On the
Porpoise
? But it ain't even Saturday.”

“All the surveying boats made for the
Porpoise
in the squall, and now they're making merry in both the foc'sle and the cabin. In fact,” Keith guilelessly went on, “some of 'em are getting most awful rotten drunk.” Then his face brightened as Stoker, having relented, came in with a bowl of lobscouse he'd found, and slapped it down on the table in front of him.

Forsythe said, “So where the hell is Ringgold?”

“In charge of the
Sea Gull,
” said Wiki, Keith's mouth being too full to answer.

“What the hell is he doin' there?”

“I was as surprised as you when I found it out.”

“How long has this been goin' on?”

Wiki calculated. Today was Tuesday, so he said, “Four days at least. On Saturday I arrived down the river from El Carmen to find that the fleet had arrived, the citizens were all in a panic about it, and the
Sea Gull
was floundering through the shoals in the descending dark. She shot up a blue rocket, and I yelled out for a boat, but their only response was to try to shoot me dead. It was after I finally persuaded them I belonged to the
Swallow
that I learned Captain Ringgold was in command. And then he accused me of being a spy,” he concluded rather moodily.

Forsythe snorted, but Constant Keith looked impressed. The lad confided, “I was on board the
Vin
when that blue light went up.”

“So why didn't Captain Wilkes do something about it?” Wiki demanded.

“But he did! The whole ship got into a commotion, with orders flying everywhere, because the officers jumped to the conclusion that the natives were attacking. We soon had five boats full of men and cutlasses pulling stoutly for the river, but then Captain Wilkes went after us in the
Flying Fish,
and called us all back. In a few minutes we were again on board the
Vin,
all safe and unstained with blood.”

“Called the boats back?” Wiki echoed, astonished.

“And lucky we were, as the night was dark, and we didn't know the way through the breakers. We could've been lost with a vengeance.”

“But wasn't Captain Wilkes worried about the poor stranded
Sea Gull
?”

Midshipman Keith thought about it, his brow wrinkled as he chewed, and then shook his head. “I guess he realized she wasn't being attacked. And then the next day was Sunday, so we got divine services instead of the chance to check.”

“So what have you been doing since then?”

“Surveying,” said the midshipman importantly. “Yesterday I went into the river on the
Flying Fish,
and today I had command of the
Vin
's smallest cutter, charged with the job of ascertaining the rise and fall of the tide. I had a tedious and uncomfortable time of it, too—was nearly carried out to sea by the current once, and you've no idea how perplexed and worried I felt. How I wished I was exploring on shore instead! While I was on the
Flying Fish,
I saw two gauchos on the headland,” he went on in reverent tones.

“Gauchos?” Wiki was puzzled, because Bernantio and his friends had been the only gauchos he had seen on the headland the day before, and they had left very early.

“Aye, yesterday, before noon—two horsemen on the hilltop by the flagstaff. They dashed across the uplands, taking turns to whirl some kind of lariat about their heads. What a dramatic and primitive scene they made with their ponchos flying out behind them, horses and riders in clear relief against the sky! Oh, but they were wild and picturesque as they galloped back and forth! How I wished for the gift of an artist, to sketch their graceful costume, and their Arab-looking steeds!”

Wiki and George stared at each other in abrupt realization, and then simultaneously hid their faces in their coffee mugs. Forsythe, however, hadn't even been listening. After brooding a moment with his lips pursing in and out, he left the table and headed off up the stairs, muttering something about paying a call on the
Porpoise
to see what was a-going on. Then he disappeared, yelling out for the crew of the cutter.

No sooner had the boat cleared away than the bell by the wheel, on the quarterdeck above their heads, rang out eight times, echoing down the skylight.

Wiki said, “Whose watch is it?”

Instead of answering, Rochester said, “The bo'sun took the second dogwatch.”

The boatswain was one of the tradesmen of the ship, who kept the same hours as artisans on shore. It was eight in the evening, the start of the first four-hour watch of the night, and he would be seeking his warm berth. Wiki remembered how cold Rochester had looked as he took the first dogwatch, and that young Keith had spent the day in the breakers, surveying. He finished his coffee, eased himself off the bench, and stood up, saying, “I'll take the deck.”

When he arrived at the top of the companionway he realized why the sounds of the bell had seemed so loud. The weather was now dead calm as well as cold, so the brig was lying in a pool of strange silence with just the lap of water against her hull to punctuate her slow roll. The atmosphere, he thought, was ominous. He checked the man at the helm, who was keeping the
Swallow
up to her anchors, and then the lookout on the forecastle-head, before climbing up to the main topgallant crosstrees.

There, Wiki passed an arm around the tie of the halyards to steady himself as he scanned the expanse of ocean all around. The sea was glowing with phosphorescence, gleaming eerily. The five other ships of the discovery fleet—the full-rigged sloops
Vincennes
and
Peacock,
the small schooners
Sea Gull
and
Flying Fish,
and the gun brig
Porpoise
—were well spread out, sitting still on the glowing water with their masts upright. Forsythe's cutter was energetically pulling for the gun brig, the closest to the shore. As Keith had intimated, many small boats were clustered about her. The
Trojan
was nowhere to be seen; even the red glow of her tryworks fires had disappeared.