Deadly Shoals (23 page)

The brigantine
Osprey
was three miles to the southeast of the anchored fleet, lying at a standstill even though she was under full sail. She had been moving recently, evidently making for the
Swallow,
because her fading phosphorescent wake was slanted in this direction, but now she looked like a paper silhouette. There was still no sign of the fog Forsythe had so confidently predicted. Vivid lightning played over the land beyond the estuary, bringing fleeting glimpses of piled, angry clouds. Wiki listened intently, but there was no thunder to be heard. The only sounds that reached him were the slosh of water against the hull, and the distant whisper of surf.

The temperature was dropping further, and he shivered. However, just as he was about to head down to deck to fetch his poncho, he saw a tiny splash of white halfway between the ships and the beach. He wondered what it was.

It was gone. He kept on staring, afraid to blink in case he missed it. Then he glimpsed it again—another white flicker. He called down for a spyglass.

Tana, who was one of the two Samoan seamen, brought it up, his expression inquisitive, and waited while Wiki aimed the telescope and fiddled with the lens. A flick of foam—several flicks at once—and Wiki abruptly realized it was water kicked up by oars. A few more seconds, and the image came clearly into focus—a whaleboat pulling through the eerily phosphorescent night, coming out from the beach. Instead of heading for the
Porpoise,
the closest ship, it was unmistakably steering south for the
Osprey,
though she was the farthest away.

Wiki dropped down a backstay to the deck, and called down to the saloon through the skylight. George Rochester came up at once, followed by Constant Keith. He frowned as he listened, and then said, “From the shore?”

Wiki nodded.

“It's probably one of the expedition boats making for home after having been caught on the beach by the squall.”

“That's what I thought, too. But he's steering for the
Osprey,
and not any of the ships of the fleet.”

George Rochester paused meditatively, and then asked, “How often does your father call into this coast?”

“Never, as far as I know,” replied Wiki, startled. “Salem traders traditionally take the Cape of Good Hope route. Why?”

“I was wondering if he has ever gone in for smuggling.”

“How would
I
know?”

“Well, he's your
father,
old chap.”

“Which is a good reason why I'd be the last to know,” Wiki said tartly. “Anyway, what the devil would he smuggle into Patagonia?”

“Arms? There's always some kind of revolution brewing—or so they tell me.”

George was right, Wiki thought, remembering his conversation with Manuel Bernantio, but objected, “What would he get in return? The Patagonians produce nothing but salt and hides!”

“Take a boat and find out.”

Wiki blinked. “Why me? I'm on watch, remember.”

“This young glutton can take the deck—he's got two suppers to work off. And don't you want to see your father?”

“Well, of course I do—but I thought tomorrow would be soon enough.”

“But what if your father really
is
smuggling?”

Wiki wanted to laugh. He was saved by a shout from Tana, who was still in the main hamper: “Hey, the deck, cap'n sir, the
Vin
's lowering a boat!”

“They've raised the whaleboat, too, and want to know what the devil's afoot,” George decided. “Come on, old chap, get a move on! Your father's reputation could be at stake!”

“Oh, for God's sake,” said Wiki, and did laugh, but he left.

*   *   *

Because the
Swallow
was closest to the
Osprey,
Wiki arrived alongside his father's brigantine well ahead of the other two boats. The
Osprey
still had all sail set on her two tall masts, but was making no way at all, merely drifting on the northeast current, so he had no trouble snatching a dangling rope and bringing his boat to a standstill. Then he walked up the side of the ship with the aid of the rope, and climbed over the gangway.

Just about the entire crew of the brigantine was on deck, and Captain Coffin was waiting eagerly by the rail. A tall, lean, handsome Yankee with a head of thick, dark, gray-flecked hair, he normally had the world-weary look of a lizard, because a scar on the left side of his face had weakened one eyelid so that it habitually hung at half-mast. At this moment, however, even the half-hidden eye gleamed with animation, and Mr. Seward, standing at his shoulder, looked equally eager.

Captain Coffin exclaimed, “Have you come to get 'em?”

Wiki surveyed his father for a long moment with his hands propped on his belt, but learned nothing from his expression. Finally he confessed, “I've not a notion what you're talking about.”

“The carpenters, Wiki! You've come to take the carpenters away?”

Wiki shook his head.

“What the devil have you come for, then? And what the hell have you done to your hair?”

Wounded, Wiki said, “I thought you always wanted me to get it cut.”

“Well, I've now decided I didn't.”

Wiki sighed, and said, “You do know there's a boat heading this way from shore?”

“Of course we know. We've been watching it. My guess is that one of the expedition boats strayed too far up the Río Negro, and is late coming home.”

“So why is he steering for you? There's a boat from the
Vin
on the way, too. Aren't you worried about that?”

“Why the devil should I be?”

“George wondered if you were going in for some smuggling.”

“The slanderous young scoundrel!”

Mr. Seward's face went quite blank, and then his lips twitched and he turned hastily away. At the same time, Wiki could have sworn he heard a muffled giggle. When he looked around it was to see that the brigantine's six cadets were openly listening, broad grins on their ruddy round faces. He winked, because not only did he like them but they had labored earnestly at the oars of the boat when he'd steered it into the river the day before, and one of them openly laughed.

The look Wiki's father cast at the boys, by contrast, was ferocious in the extreme. “Mister,” he shouted to Mr. Seward. “Send these young rascals aloft to keep lookout—and if you hear 'em laying bets on which boat gets here first, report 'em in the log!”

That delivered, he jerked his head at Wiki and turned for the door in the break of the poop that led to the captain's cabin. Wiki followed with alacrity, for not only was his father's coffee guaranteed to be good but he had some questions to ask.

Beyond the door lay a short flight of steps—shorter than the companionway on the
Swallow,
because the house was half-set into the deck. These led to a corridor with carved mahogany double doors on the starboard side, which opened into a spacious cabin. This served as both sitting room and saloon, as well as the place where his father slept, a curtained berth being tucked into the niche of the starboard quarter. As Captain Coffin liked to say, it was the heart of the ship.

It was also evidence of his eccentricity, because the horseshoe-shaped settee under the flamboyant expanse of tiered stern windows was upholstered in green on the starboard side, and red to port. Wiki chose a green cushion, and then observed, “I heard you marched on board the
Vin
after they ran afoul of you in Rio, and demanded a carpentering gang. Are those the same carpenters you're so anxious to be quit of?”

“Stupidest thing I've ever done,” Captain Coffin said moodily, sitting on the red side of the settee, on the far side of an egg-shaped table that was just knee-high, and set in the sofa's curve. “Wilkes blustered, but then agreed,” he went on, adding darkly, “With a proviso.”

“That you keep pace with the fleet?”

“That, too.”

“There was something else?”

Captain Coffin pointed a long finger at the floor, and said, “Down there—in my private hold, goddamn it—sits the entire damn collection of specimens gathered by those maniac squirrels you call
scientifics
ever since the damn voyage began.”

“The
whole
collection?”

“The complete damn lot! Eighty boxes, barrels, half barrels, and bundles, holding samples of natural history, botany, and mineralogy collected from Madeira, St. Jago, the Cape Verde Islands, and Rio—which will be supplemented by whatever the squirrels collect on the Río Negro before I'm allowed to leave.”

“For Boston?”

“For Philadelphia—for the Peale museum.”

“Peale?”
Wiki lifted a brow, realizing that the Peale family had more to do with the exploring expedition than he'd realized.

“Aye. They're addressed to Franklin Peale. They were bound, sealed, and nailed shut under the supervision of a commissioned officer. I'm not allowed to open them, under pain of death—and they stink the whole ship out!”

“But you are being well paid for the inconvenience,” Wiki guessed with a grin.

“I had to shift my personal trade goods into the steerage!”

“Displacing coffee—which you sold to Captain Wilkes for the use of the fleet,” Wiki further deduced, remembering the good coffee on the
Sea Gull.

“Exactly,” Captain Coffin confirmed complacently. “And I also passed some on to Captain Stackpole—exchanged a few sacks for a couple of barrels of oil, which will fetch a dollar per gallon in the market, he told me.”

Wiki said quickly, “You've been gamming with Captain Stackpole?”

“I'm always happy to
gam,
as you whalemen call it, and so I paid a call on board his ship while he was beating out of this godforsaken place. And a foul sight it was,” Captain Coffin added. “I'd never imagined a whaleship as the lowest levels of hell, but the
Trojan
sure looked it—and stank like it, too.”

“Did he tell you if he'd seen Captain Wilkes?”

“All he told me is that he's anxious to head south—after more whales, I expect. He must be five miles or more out to sea by now.” Captain Coffin lifted his voice, crying, “Where's that damn coffee, steward?”

An answering shout came not from the pantry, but from above as one of the boats arrived. Quickly, Wiki followed his father to deck, to find it was the strange whaleboat that had come out from shore. When he looked over the gangway rail the man at the steering oar was holding on to a boat fall.

Benjamin Harden. The ex-river pilot looked up at him with his face tipped back so that the light from the cresset lantern glinted on his reddish beard.

Wiki exclaimed, “What are
you
doing here?”

Captain Coffin said curiously, “Do you know this man?”

Wiki didn't answer, having abruptly realized that the five oarsmen were familiar, too. They were all deeply weathered, middle-aged, hard-bitten sailors, scarred by past encounters with angry bull seals; some of the fists clenched on the handles of the oars were missing fingers.

He said to them, “Aren't you the sealers we rescued from Shark Island?”

Silence. All five looked away, their expressions sullen. Wiki remembered their reputation for inciting mutiny on previous ships, and felt another twinge of uneasiness. Frowning deeply, he said to Harden, “What are you doing with
them
as your boat's crew?”

“Captain Wilkes's orders,” Harden said, his tone casual. Without bothering with further explanation he jumped up to deck, where he advanced on Captain Coffin with his hand held out. “Benjamin Harden, junior, at your service, sir,” he heartily declaimed. “Originally from Providence, Rhode Island, now with the exploring expedition.”

“Is that so?” said Captain Coffin. He was glancing from Harden to Wiki and back, and frowning. Like Ringgold earlier, he stepped back instead of shaking hands.

Harden didn't answer this rhetorical question, because at that moment the boat from the
Vincennes
arrived. The red-cheeked midshipman in charge of this was very junior, but his tone was carefully gruff and officious as he demanded of Captain Coffin, “Is all well here, sir?”

“Of course,” said Wiki's father, very surprised. “Why shouldn't it be?”

“There's rumors flying round of a drunken frolic in the fleet. Captain Wilkes thought it might be on board of you, sir, and so he sent me to investigate.”

“Me?”
Captain Coffin exclaimed. “That's infamous, by God! An insult of the grossest kind! Do you see any drunken frolicking here?”

“That I do not, sir,” said the young midshipman, not contrite at all.

“I should bloody well think not!”

“You must understand that we had our reasons, sir. When we raised a boat pulling for the
Osprey,
suspicions were voiced that it was to join some kind of jollification.”

“I have as little idea why this man has called on me as you do!”

“Carpenters, sir,” interrupted Benjamin Harden, exhibiting the same easy confidence Wiki had noticed back by the Río Negro. “That's what we've come for. The two carpenters. To take them back to the
Vincennes,
” he added.

“Carpenters? You've come to take those string-shanked sogers away?” Captain Coffin cried. “Then, by God, you shall have them!” he exclaimed, and hollered for his mate. “Mister, do me the favor of rousing Boyd and Folger, and clearing them and their chests out of our foc'sle!”

Wiki exclaimed, “Captain Wilkes sent
Boyd and Folger
to do the carpentering?”

“Exactly,” said his father impatiently. “What of it?”

Boyd and Folger were two more of the mutinous sealers they had rescued at Shark Island, but Wiki didn't wait to explain. Instead, he hurriedly excused himself, jumped down into the
Swallow
boat, and headed back to the brig.