Deadly Shoals (29 page)

“Exactly,” Captain Coffin heartily affirmed, then lowered his voice. “In Rio he came to me because he wanted some money for gilt decoration on the figurehead—to give the bird a gold beak, for God's sake! And when I refused he paid for gold leaf out of his own pocket, and painted the beak himself! He treats the
Osprey
as if she were his own, but how can I make any objections when he loves her so well?”

“Good God,” said Captain Stackpole, and wagged his head. As Wiki knew well, whaling masters made great demands of their officers in the seamanship and whaling way, but a mate who wanted to fancy up the ship would have been considered insane. In fact, most whaling captains and officers of his acquaintance lived in a state of comfortable squalor. Wiki had once served as third mate on a ship where the settee in the aftercabin was in such an embarrassing state that the captain covered it up with the big ensign whenever visitors called, which was amusing when the more patriotic ones were squeamish about sitting on the Stars and Stripes.

Setting his empty plate aside, he remarked, “Maybe that's why Mr. Seward so strongly resents the captain's son being on board of his pride and joy.”

Stackpole's stare shifted to Wiki's face, while his expression became knowing. Captains' sons tended to be an arrogant lot, with a high opinion of their status and abilities, because of their privileged place in the cabin, so were universally disliked by their fathers' officers, and despised by the rest of the crew.

“Nonsense,” Captain Coffin snapped. “He'll soon get over it. It just that he's used to ruling the roost around here, and doesn't like his position being threatened.”

Wiki asked curiously, “How does the second mate feel about that?”

There was a pause, while Captain Coffin cleared his throat. Then he said, “We don't carry a second mate.”

“What?”
Involuntarily, Wiki looked at Stackpole, whose eyes had widened in equal disbelief. Whaleships carried at least three mates, for the simple reason that there had to be an officer for each whaleboat, to take charge of the boat in the chase. However, the mates were useful on board as well—between them, they kept the crew in order, supervised the stowing and issuing of stores, and looked after the ship's gear and rigging. Not only was it economical, because it meant that the captain didn't have to ship a boatswain, but it gave the captain the freedom to concentrate on navigation, plotting the voyage, and entertaining visitors, as whalemen were often apt to do, mid-sea.

Masters of freight-carrying traders might be derisive about this, reckoning that whaleships were as extravagantly overmanned as men-of-war, and overfond of gamming, too. However, it was unheard-of for a blue water vessel, even a relatively small two-hundred-ton ship like the
Osprey,
not to have a second mate. Without a second officer to back him up, the captain would be forced to take charge of every second watch, meaning that he had to take over the quarterdeck for eight hours every second night, and four hours the next.

Wiki observed, “I thought you were too fond of your bunk to rouse up for midnight watches.”

His father exclaimed, “You saucy young whelp!”

He was staring at Wiki with such affront that he scarcely noticed Captain Stackpole clear his throat in an embarrassed fashion and then, with the muttered excuse that he wanted to check the fog and his men, retreat hurriedly to deck.

“You're not getting any younger, you know,” Wiki pointed out.

“I'm as fit as a fiddle, and have all my faculties, including an excellent memory. Have you ever heard me tell the same story twice? And anyway,” Captain Coffin said, “Mr. Seward keeps both ship and crew in good order, and doesn't need help.”

Remembering the boy with the bruised jaw, Wiki observed sardonically, “He seems to enjoy keeping the cadets in good shape.”

His father saw the implicit meaning at once, and took umbrage. “Apart from the occasional swat with a cane across the backside, Alf has never laid a hand on any one of my cadets! They all revere him!”

“But one of them has certainly been in a fight. Are you trying to tell me that he got into a scuffle with his shipmates?”

“I'm not
trying
to tell you anything—and the boys know better than to get into scuffles. Any bout of fisticuffs would definitely earn a swat across the butt. If you really want to know what happened, he got into a scuffle with one of those goddamned string-shanked carpenters!”

Surprised, Wiki asked, “Boyd, or Folger?”

“The younger one, Boyd—but the older one, Folger, always backed him up, just like he was his father, or something.”

“Folger is his uncle,” Wiki said. “He raised him as his own after his sister died, or so he testified to me.”

“You sound as if you know them well.” Captain Coffin's tone was accusing.

“They are two of the sealers we rescued from their sinking ship, three months back, and I had to cross-examine them during a murder investigation.”

“Murder?”

“Aye.”

“Did you catch the killer?”

“Aye. Did Boyd make a habit of smacking the cadets about?” Wiki asked, because it would explain why his father had been so anxious to get rid of the two men.

To Wiki's surprise, his father blushed. He mumbled, “Boyd pestered them all the time—in an unnatural kind of way. He seemed fascinated by their youth. The boys—they're healthy young scoundrels, and they laughed at him, I think. Then he cornered the lad while he was working in the hold by himself, and a fight developed. Mr. Seward heard the ruckus, went down, and settled it.”

“With a belaying pin?”

“He felled Boyd with a punch to the jaw.”

“Knocked him
out
?”

“Stretched him senseless on the deck.”

So the mate had been in a towering rage—a passion that had lent him unnatural strength, Wiki thought. While Mr. Seward looked athletic enough, he was much more lightly built than Boyd.

Again, he was reminded of George's remark about Alf Seward's strange possessiveness, and said slowly, “I think the real reason you don't carry a second mate is that Mr. Seward doesn't want to share the ship with another officer. And that's the reason he doesn't like me on board, too.”

His father flushed again, this time with anger. “I've already told you that he rules the roost around here. You make it obvious that you don't like it, Wiki, but it isn't any of your business. You're here because Wilkes ordered you to get that affidavit from Stackpole, and the sooner you do it, the sooner you can get back to the fleet. So why don't you do your job, instead of trying to tell me how to run my ship?”

“You're right,” said Wiki, and stood up and left the cabin.

Thirteen

The fog was thicker than ever, hanging in great gray billows about the masts and rigging, and it was impossible to see the bowsprit from the poop. Wiki paused as the bell by the wheel rang four times for the end of the first dogwatch—just six in the evening, but because of the gloom cast by the fog it seemed dusk already. On the
Swallow,
the second tot of rum of the day would have been issued. Here, Wiki thought, it might be the same, as he heard sounds of jollity from the foredeck, along with the merry scraping of a fiddle and the chorus of a hearty song. Obviously, the visiting whalemen were being well entertained.

Mr. Seward was on the starboard side of the quarterdeck, his oilskins glistening in the light of the cresset lantern, which also shone on his damp blond hair, but he paid Wiki no attention. Stackpole was standing at the rail amidships, looking seaward, and glaring at the billowing mists. As soon as Wiki came up alongside, he grabbed his arm, and hissed in his ear, “William Coffin is your
father
?”

Wiki was surprised. “Didn't you know?”

“Never guessed. Not that there ain't a resemblance,” the whaleman added.

“Is there? Good heavens,” said Wiki without expression.

“And this ship is a floating antique!”

“Launched in 1813, but looked antique even then, I imagine,” Wiki agreed. “She was built according to my father's instructions. He had romantic ideas and almost unlimited funds.”

Stackpole paused, but obviously couldn't resist asking, “Family funds?”

“Personally acquired riches. At the start of the war for free trade and sailors' rights he was given the command of the fastest American ship afloat, and within a few months had accumulated enough prize money to have the
Osprey
built.”

“He was a
privateer
?”

“And a lucky one, too. The ship he commanded could make thirteen knots with a crew of one hundred and fifty and all her stores, cannon, boats, and bulwarks aboard, and because of her speed he could outrun British frigates with ease. Not only did he capture a large consignment of military supplies intended for Cornwallis, and deliver them to Washington with a flourish, but he took six prizes worth one hundred and sixty thousand dollars, in total. Not bad for a man who was not quite twenty-two years old at the time, don't you think? You should ask him about it.”

“Not me,” said Stackpole, and shook his head for emphasis.

Obviously, he'd heard enough tales spun for one day. Wiki laughed, and then sobered. He said, “Do you know a Río Negro river pilot by the name of Harden?”

“The only river pilots I know are the Englishman and the Frenchman who live in that pilothouse. Why?”

“This one is American, and he's joined the exploring expedition.”

There was a pause while the fog swirled slowly, and then Stackpole said, “Well, you can't blame any American for seizing an excuse to escape from trying to make a living out of piloting the Río Negro.”

Escape?
Wiki remembered what Forsythe had said:
If he's got such a grand mission for revolution, why would he want to leave the Río Negro?

He said, “Manuel Bernantio told me he's a revolutionary.”

“Oh, you mean
that
Harden,” said Stackpole, enlightened. “I've surely heard of
him.
I didn't know he was a pilot. I thought he was just a goddamned rascal of a desperado.”

“Have you met him?”

“Never, to my knowledge.”

“But you've obviously heard sensational things.”

“According to the governor of El Carmen, he supplies arms to the rebels.”

“So why doesn't the governor do something about it?” Wiki queried. “He's got plenty of troops.”

“Why the hell should he? He owes no debt to the de Rosas government. Truth be told, he probably hates de Rosas as much as the rebels do. Is that why Wilkes sent you in search of me? To tell you what I know about Harden?”

“As I've already told you, Captain Wilkes wants you to write an affidavit.”

Stackpole looked away, his expression evasive again. Instead of answering, he demanded, “So why are you asking about Harden?”

“Because I'm curious about Benjamin Harden. Captain Wilkes, by contrast, is curious about Caleb Adams.”

“
Adams?
Why?”

“He wants to know what kind of man Adams was.”

“You saw the corpse, just as I did.”

“That skull was too bare to tell me much,” Wiki pointed out.

“But you saw the body, right? A tough, sinewy, slender man—though I guess you couldn't tell that he was a lot stronger than he looked. Many a time I watched him heave up a great sack of grain, swing it onto his back, and then carry it into the store as if it were filled with nothin' more than feathers. I doubt I could have lifted one of those sacks alone.”

Wiki paused, finding this interesting. Then he said, “Captain Wilkes wondered what the deceased's nature was like.”

“His
what
?”

“His character. What kind of man he was.”

Looking thoughtful, the whaling master groped about in a pocket and hauled out his pipe. He took his time about lighting it, while Wiki waited. Finally, he let out a judicious puff, and said, “Angry.”

“Angry at what?”

“Everything and everybody, just about. Caleb Adams was chewed up with anger, as if it ate at his insides. He wasn't too bad when I first got to know him, on account of trade was going so well. Then it fell off, and his temper got foul. The only thing that cheered him up,” Stackpole said bitterly, “was selling me that bloody schooner.”

He puffed so furiously that Wiki took a long step backward to get away from the stinging cloud of tobacco smoke, which mingled revoltingly with the mixed aroma of whale oil, trysmoke, and brandy that surrounded Stackpole already.

Then he observed, “But at least Adams was honest about that.”

“Honest?”
Stackpole cried.

“The deed of sale proved that the transaction really did take place.”

“Are you sure of that?”

Wiki frowned. “What do you mean?”

Stackpole silenced. Captain Coffin had come on deck, his figure so insubstantial that Wiki realized that the fog had got even more dense. Through the mist he saw his father go to Mr. Seward, and engage in talk. Both men were looking curiously at him and Stackpole, he noticed, but after the conversation was over Captain Coffin merely went to the wheel, checked the compass, looked up at the dripping sails, said a few words to the helmsman, and then returned below.

The instant his tall figure vanished, Stackpole muttered, “You don't need that affidavit.”

Wiki looked at him. “What?”

“I've got it.”

Silence, while the rigging dripped with a deathwatch sound. Then Wiki said, “I've not a notion what you're talking about.”

“The deed of sale. I've got it.”

Wiki stared, too stunned for speech, and the whaling master's tone became defensive. “I got it when I went back into the store for the poncho. I reckoned I was the legal owner of the deed, so I asked him for it.”