Shark Island (9 page)

Hammond stuttered, “But what do I do with the c-corpse?”

“Jesus,”
said Forsythe, sotto voce, and then, raising his voice, said, “Send for the steward, and get him to sew it into a winding sheet, and then stow it somewhere while you get a coffin built. You have a carpenter, don't you?—or mebbe not, considering you weren't capable of fixing your own leak. But you must have a bo'sun—get him to build a coffin. Tell him to save the knife for when we inform the Brazilian authorities, because they are bound to ask for it. But the most important thing is to get this cabin cleaned up so you can get Mrs. Reed out of sight of the men. The quicker she's down here, the better for morale. And she's Roman Catholic, so you'd better get ready to hold a wake tonight. I presume you have a Bible on board?”

“Of
course
we damn well have a Bible on board!” Hammond shouted. For some reason this seemed to cause him more affront than anything else Forsythe had said.

Wiki, delighted to leave Forsythe in charge, removed himself without a word. It was a relief to get out into the bright light at the top of the companionway. Both boats' crews had arrived back on board in the interval, while the six cutter's crew were huddled with Kingman on the foredeck, so that the decks seemed packed. The racket was deafening. Men asked each other what the hell was going to happen next—that the ship was sinking under them was bad enough, but now the
captain
was dead. He'd been murdered while most of them were away from the ship—which cut the list of suspects down to a handful, and most of them could guess the name of the foul killer, or so they reckoned. The ship's pigs and hens clucked and squealed agitatedly, infected by the panicked atmosphere.

When Wiki looked around to see where Annabelle had got to she was collapsed onto a bench set against the after house, weeping wildly. There were streaks of blood on her face where she'd cradled it in her hands. He stood watching her, at a complete loss to know what to do, wondering what in God's name she was doing here on this sinking tub. Every time he had thought about her over the past eight years, he had pictured her presiding over Reed's substantial house in Stonington. It would have been a prosperous and comfortable way of life, and he had assumed that she would realize her remarkable luck, forget her wild past, and gracefully take on the role of a decent matron.

Instead, it seemed that she had taken up the dangerous and uncomfortable existence of a captain's wife at sea. It was a crazy decision—and yet Annabelle had always been madly daring, he wryly recollected; it was something he had learned in detail during the week before her wedding. Because Ezekiel Reed was rich and delighted with himself for landing such a delectable bride, he had lavishly entertained his guests for seven days of festivities before the actual ceremony—seven days that included seven nights, as Wiki vividly remembered.

The mad affair had been sparked the instant they had met; while her small hand rested in his big one, he had been engulfed by her wide-eyed, black-lashed, admiring gaze. Like his mother's people, Wiki had matured early, and when he had arrived in Stonington at the start of that week-long prewedding party, he had already learned a deep appreciation of women and their beauty. Never, however, had he experienced a girl as reckless as Annabelle Green—who was determined to make the most of her last week of liberty, and had swept him along with her wild exuberance. Already a man, he had found her utterly irresistible.

The risks she had taken were crazy—as witness that last waltz, he thought, and wondered why the devil she'd told Forsythe about it, because it had created enough of a sensation at the time. Just an hour before the actual ceremony, Annabelle had danced onto the floor of the huge reception room while half of respectable New England stared. Wiki had been leaning against a wall, content to watch her as a small orchestra played the fast three-step tune of the Boston waltz that was fashionable then, assuming that she was simply showing off her wedding dress to the host of assembled guests. Instead, she had pirouetted right up to him. “Handsome young man,” she had murmured in his ear, enfolding him with her scent, “will you dance my last waltz with me?”

At the time, he had readily accepted the challenge, his face creased up into a wide conspiratorial grin—not only was he just sixteen and utterly obsessed, but he knew how she hated being thwarted. Now, eight years later, he grimly reflected that she could have got him lynched. She'd known it, too, he thought, because he remembered how wickedly her eyes had sparkled as she had leaned back in the muscular circle of his arms as they danced; just for the hell of it, she had deliberately and mischievously put them both in terrible danger. Was she still up to the same tricks? Had she dared Forsythe with her lush body and her dancing eyes—had he quarreled with Captain Reed because of her? And killed him, perhaps?

Then Wiki was distracted by the sight of movement on the half-mile stretch of water between the schooner and the
Swallow.
The brig was safely anchored now, the sails furled, and so a boat was heading their way. Captain Rochester had taken time to get himself into uniform, because Wiki could see the twinkle of gold lace in the stern sheets. Abruptly remembering that George had asked him to have a look at the damage to the
Annawan,
he left Annabelle without a word, heading for the hatch to the holds.

Nine

As Wiki descended the first rungs of the ladder that led below deck, the babble became muffled. At the midway point there was a landing that led to a between-decks space, and he paused to look around. In a whaleship this would have been the steerage—the place where the boatsteerers lived, and whaling gear was stored. Here, it was very cramped, because much of the area was used up by the after house and the forward house, where they were sunk into the deck. There was very little headroom, too, so that he had to stand in a crouched position. It was surprisingly light, though. Sun slanted through the forward hatch above, enhanced by light from another hatch forty feet farther aft, which had its own ladder. Wiki could distinctly see the many bags and barrels that were stored between the two hatchways. Provisions, he thought—the cook and the steward would have easy access to them because the forward hatch was so close to the forward house and the galley. Indeed, the steward would be able to reach the captain's cabin in rainy weather by detouring through here, as the second hatchway, aft, was close to the doorway to the after house.

Then Wiki tensed at the sound of deliberate footsteps echoing from below and coming closer. He realized that someone was coming up the ladder from the hold just as a dark-haired head poked up, followed by the body of a sturdy man in seaman's working rig.

Because he had been thinking so much about Annabelle, Wiki recognized her cousin at once. He exclaimed, “Alphabet—Alphabet Green!”

“Jesus Christ,” said the other, his Cajun accent immediately apparent. “Wiki Coffin, what the hell are you doing here? I haven't clapped eyes on you since—hell, it must have been at Annabelle's wedding.”

They shook hands, delighted to see each other. “You remember my famous nickname,” Alphabet observed.

“I certainly can't remember your real name,” Wiki confessed. “Only your initials—X.Y.Z., isn't that right?”

“Xavier York Zimri Green—and it surely ain't right to lumber a poor innocent infant with a label like that.”

They both laughed, but then Wiki abruptly sobered. “I guess you know that Ezekiel has been killed?”

“Aye.” Annabelle's cousin silenced, his expression very grim, and Wiki was struck by how much he had aged in the past eight years. Alphabet Green's face was darkened by the sun to the color of mahogany, and the creases about his squinting eyes and thin cheeks were so deep they looked as if they bit to the bone.

He sighed, and said, “Have they pinned the blame on anyone yet?”

“I don't think so.” Though it would only be a matter of time before Hammond's accusation of Forsythe would become a chorus, Wiki thought grimly, because Forsythe was, without a doubt, the most likely culprit. If he was telling the truth, and had not been in the cabin at the time Captain Reed was attacked, it was lucky for him that he had two witnesses to that—Annabelle Reed, and Zachary Kingman.

“You're with the brig
Swallow?
”

“Aye.” Wiki hadn't noticed Alphabet Green in the host of twelve
Annawan
men who had arrived on board the brig, but then, he thought, he'd had no reason to recognize him before having seen Annabelle.

“You've joined the U.S. Navy?”

“Never! I'm a civilian with the expedition—a translator, what they call ‘linguister.' Of Pacific languages, mostly.” Wiki joked in response to Alphabet's incredulous expression, “It's easier than it sounds—did you know that the Tahitian alphabet has only thirteen letters?”

Alphabet laughed. Then he waved an arm around the between-decks space, and said, “So what are you doing in here?”

Wiki roused, reminded of his task. Turning back to the ladder, he said, “I've been asked to assess the damage in the holds.”

He headed downward. It was very dark, and when he stepped off at the bottom it was a surprise to find that the water was knee-deep, and the ballast was loose. He paused, frowning as he looked around, his sight adjusting. Save for a few casks stacked in tiers, and a big iron freshwater tank amidships by the ladder, the dank, echoing cavern was empty, which was usual enough in a sealer that was still on the way to the sealing ground. There was a strong, breath-catching stink of bilge. It was possible to see where the seamen had tried to fix the leak, as ripples of light seeped upward from beyond the fothered sail—but there was a hint of more light flickering farther beyond. It looked ominously as if the whole strake had splintered and started. Wiki took out his jackknife, unfolded it, and sloshed over to that side of the hull. The top layer of the loose ballast shifted and grated in the dark water as he moved, making a strangely metallic scraping noise.

As he tested the wood with the tip of his knife, he was aware that Alphabet had followed him, but was so absorbed he did not turn round. Then, when Alphabet finally spoke, his voice came from so unexpectedly close behind him that Wiki jumped with surprise.

Alphabet said, “How does it look?”

“Not good.” Wiki waded along in the darkness, and set to testing wood again.

Alphabet sighed, coming close again, and said, “She's old.”

“Aye—and has seen a lot of hard usage, too.” Which was only to be expected, with sealers. “But she was built to last,” Wiki mused aloud. If they could somehow careen her, all might not be lost—if only they could find replacement planking. Thinking that he might know of a source, he said, “That wreck on the beach—have you looked at it?”

“Of course,” said Alphabet, and laughed rather strangely, Wiki thought. “That wrecked sloop belonged to Ezekiel, too,” he said.

“She did?” Wiki was startled.

“Aye.” Then Alphabet silenced. Again, he was too close for comfort; Wiki could smell the onions on his breath. The Greens were Cajun fisher folk from Louisiana—a kind of sea-gypsy people, originally from Acadia on the seaboard of Canada, who had been expelled by the British five or six generations ago, and who now fished the swamps of the Gulf of Mexico, and swarmed about the waterfront of New Orleans. They kept to themselves, and spoke their own dialect, and had different standards of behavior. No doubt they had their own ideas of proximity—Annabelle had delighted in physical intimacy more than any other girl Wiki had ever known.

Completely spontaneously, without knowing he was going to ask it, Wiki said, “Was it truly Annabelle's last chance to waltz?”

“Waltz?” Alphabet sounded jolted. “At her wedding?”

“Aye.”

“New England wives are not allowed to dance at all.”

“So she hasn't danced since?”

“Hell, no. It ain't considered decent. In fact,” Alphabet Green said, “she shouldn't have danced at her wedding, either—and certainly not with a handsome young man who was
not
her fiancé.” His tone was knowing as he went on, “That week before her wedding, there was a
hell
of a lot she should not have done. She took crazy risks—and so did you. The family considers her mad, you know.”

Wiki said softly as he folded up his jackknife, “I thought she was enchanting.”

“Truly?”

“Truth to tell, I was madly in love with her. Absolutely enslaved.”

“Poor Wiki,” said Alphabet. He laughed and took a step away.

“Poor Annabelle,” said Wiki. She who had been so passionate and alive was a weeping widow, now. He turned and set his boot on the first rung of the ladder.

As he climbed, his knuckles accidentally hit the water tank. The cold, wet iron gave out a dull bang rather than the half-empty boom had expected. That's odd, Wiki thought, and said over his shoulder, “I thought you came here for water.”

Alphabet's voice echoed from a dozen feet below. “Who the hell told you that?”

“Hammond.”

“That's crazy. We came in to salvage the
Hero
—he knows that.”

So here at last was a plausible reason for coming into Shark Island. “How did Captain Reed learn that she'd been wrecked?”

“He got the news at Rio. He expected to meet up with the
Hero
there, but instead learned that she'd been chased up the beach here—to escape a bunch of privateers.”

“Insurgents?” Watching Alphabet nod, Wiki thought that when he had suggested to Captain Wilkes that the so-called pirates could be local revolutionaries, he'd been right on the mark. It had been wildly optimistic of Ezekiel Reed to hope the
Hero
had not been looted, but still worth checking. For the first time the situation made some kind of sense.