Deadly Shoals (10 page)

The party soon became strung out, with the gauchos in the lead, and Ringgold and the officers following in pairs, leaving Wiki to bring up the rear. An hour later, when one of the two young gentlemen fell back to engage him in conversation, Wiki nodded without speaking, being none the wiser.

“You are a New Zealand native,” this fellow stated without preamble.

“I am,” said Wiki, neglecting to mention that he was also half American. It was growing hot, so he paused to draw off his poncho, fold it, and lay it over the front of his saddle.

“And your name is Wiki,” the other went on. Beneath his peaked hat he had short, brown hair drawn back from a pale, high forehead, and his expression was studious and earnest.

Wiki admitted that, too.

“Tell me, what does the word
Wiki
mean?”

Wiki blinked in surprise, then said, “In the Hawaiian language it means
swift
.”

“And very appropriate, I am sure,” commented the other, casting an envious sideways glance at Wiki's athletic form. “But what does
Wiki
mean in your own dialect?”

“You mean in
te reo Maori
?”

“If that is what you call your form of Polynesian, yes.”

“It means nothing at all.”

“Nothing? As in null?”

“It has no meaning,” Wiki repeated. “It's just a name—like yours, no doubt.”

“Horatio?”

So this was Mr. Hale, Wiki realized. He nodded.

“And the word
Maori
that you used just now—I think I have heard it before, though I have always heard your people referred to as ‘New Zealanders.' Is
Maori
what you call yourself when people ask you about your race?”

“I call myself
Ngapuhi
—the name of my
iwi,
my tribe.”

Mr. Hale opened his eyes wide. “Is it usual with your people to identify themselves by the name of the tribe?”

Again, Wiki nodded.

“So the word you used,
Maori
—what does it mean?”

“It means
normal.
”

The philologist seemed quite taken aback, and said cautiously, “So, your word for white men like me—
pakeha
—does it mean
abnormal
?”

Wiki quenched a grin. “No, it means
foreign
—and you don't have to be white to be
pakeha
.”

Horatio Hale fell silent awhile, mulling over this last revelation. Then he rallied, saying, “Did you know that small children can speak the sounds of all known languages, and that they employ these when they make up their own words?”

“No, I did not,” Wiki confessed.

“Well, that is how languages were originally formed, the Polynesian language being no different from the rest.”

“There are several Polynesian languages,” Wiki corrected. “Samoan, for instance, is quite a lot different from
te reo Maori
.” He remembered the first time he had heard Samoan spoken, and how intrigued he had been by its energy, the odd clicks, and sharp consonants. Compared to the sealike resonance of
te reo Maori,
it had sounded to him like the birds in the trees. Then he had recognized familiar words and concepts, and so he had learned Samoan, which he now talked like a native. In fact, he spoke in that language much more often than he did in Maori, on voyage, because two of his closest friends on the
Swallow,
Tana and Sua, were Samoan.

“But alas, you are wrong,” the other informed him. “Being an illiterate islander, it's probably very hard for you to realize that the languages of the Pacific are all forms of the same tongue.”

Wiki said coldly, “I am not illiterate.”

Mr. Hale blinked. “You can read?”

“That's what I said.”

“Taught by the missionaries, no doubt.”

As it happened, Wiki had originally learned to enjoy books because a drunken Yankee beachcomber—a man who, once upon a time, had been a respectable Edgartown captain—had taught him how to read and write. However, he kept silent.

“Valuable men, the missionaries,” Mr. Hale declared. “In addition to their traditional tasks, many of those great laborers in the foreign field have written down lengthy vocabularies of the people with whom they work, and a detailed study of these lexicons leaves no doubt whatsoever that the tribes belong to a single nation, and have a common language that varies only as dialects differ.”

Remembering how difficult it had been to make himself understood at some of the island landfalls he had made in the past, Wiki kept silent.

“For illustration, give me the various Polynesian words for canoe.”

Wiki shrugged. “In Samoa and Tahiti, the word for canoe is
va'a,
in Tonga and Rarotonga,
vaka,
in Maui and Oahu,
wa'a,
and in
te reo Maori, waka.
”

“Can't you see how the great similarity of the words proves my point?” exclaimed Mr. Hale, delighted with himself that he had chosen such an apt example. “In each great area of the earth—or, in the case of the Pacific Ocean, the sea—there was a single original language, which evolved as people moved from one place to another. It is by means of tracing these changes that we can chart the past migrations.”

“Is this why you have come on the expedition?” Wiki queried. “To make lists of words?”

“Precisely! My mission is to collect a sample vocabulary of each language, and compare the resultant lexicons to see how the tongues have evolved as the tribes moved farther apart, then to publish my findings in a volume of ethnology.”

“I see,” said Wiki, thinking that he now understood why he, and not Horatio Hale, was the expedition translator. Right from early childhood, he had derived immense pleasure from his gift for absorbing new languages whole passages at a time, complete with their depth and emotion. Didn't Mr. Hale understand that words lost most of their meaning when ripped singly from their context? Apparently not.

Then the philologist pronounced, “I am convinced that once I have collated my information, I will be able to prove beyond academic doubt that the Polynesian tribes originated in Malaya, and that islands like New Zealand were populated as these people sailed from one island group to another, moving from the west to the east and spreading out as they went.”

Involuntarily, Wiki exclaimed,
“That's just not so!”

Mr. Hale looked surprised. “Why are you so angry?”

Wiki was silent. Normally, he was able to ignore
pakeha
misconceptions, but Hale had blundered onto sacred ground. Every New Zealander knew beyond doubt that the ancestors had come from a fabled island that lay far to the east—that they were the descendants of the greatest seamen the world had ever known, who had navigated their way across an immense tract of unknown waters,
from the east to the west
. The tribal knowledge that their forefathers had sailed to New Zealand from the direction of the rising sun had great spiritual significance—houses were built with their doorways facing east, and people sang
karakia
prayers to greet the dawn.

However, Mr. Hale simply waited, so finally Wiki pointed out, “The prevailing winds blow from the east.”

“Not at all times of the year,” the other corrected. “You must have heard of islanders who were blown great distances by unexpected storms—and this is most probably how the migrations took place. And, if not by an accident of nature,” Mr. Hale amended, noticing Wiki's involuntary gesture of rejection, “then the great outward movement was achieved by waiting for the seasonal reversal of winds, which would have carried the canoes east. Thus, the Fijis were colonized first, then Samoa, then Tahiti, and finally the Marquesas Islands. The missionaries have already gone a long way to prove this with their observation that in the west the Polynesian tribes have a simple mythology and spiritual worship, while in the east this has been debased to a cruel idolatry.”

Wiki retreated into cold silence again. After waiting another moment Mr. Hale decided that he'd won the argument, because he changed the subject, saying, “It surprises me greatly that you do not have a tattooed face. Why do you not?”

“I was carried to America when I was just twelve years old.”

“That makes a difference?”

“Twelve isn't old enough to have a
moko
.”

“
Moko?
Is that your word for tattoo?”

“Aye.”

“That's strange! Why do New Zealand Maori use that word for tattoo when the rest of Polynesia has a different word?”

“I don't know,” said Wiki, rather pleased that he had produced something, even if inadvertently, that rattled Mr. Hale's superiority. However, he had to admit that it was indeed odd. The generally accepted word for tattoo was the Tahitian one,
tatau
. Only in New Zealand had he heard it called
moko.

Finally, he said, “
Moko
is also our word for lizard. Maybe the curves of the lizard inspired the curved lines of the
moko
.”

“That's clever!” said Mr. Hale. Wiki had the impression that if he'd had a notebook, it would have been written down. “Do you ever think you will get tattooed?”

Wiki didn't want to tell him that he already had spiral tattoos on his buttocks, as he had a nasty feeling that his listener would demand to see them—in the cause of science, of course. Instead, he asked, “Why are you surprised I don't have a
moko
?”

“Because the other New Zealander with the expedition has a tattooed face.”

“
Other
New Zealander?” exclaimed Wiki, astounded.

“Didn't you know? A New Zealand chief is on board the
Peacock
—the same ship where I live. For the past nine or ten years he has exhibited himself all over the States,” Mr. Hale informed him, going on in enthusiastic tones, “We often have him to dance and sing after the manner of your people—'tis as good as a play! When we get to New Zealand we're to leave him at his home, where no doubt he will revert to his old primitive habits.” He suddenly smiled, his face becoming round and angelic. “You must feel so delighted to learn that there is a countryman with the fleet! What a joy it will be for you to talk over the endearing scenes of home!”

Wiki said cautiously, “I don't suppose you know his name?”

“But of course I do. It's Jack Sac.”

That, Wiki knew, would be the name given to the Maori seaman by his first American captain, probably because he'd been so highly delighted when someone on board had given him an old coat, or sacque.

He said, “I meant his Maori name.”

“In the crew list, he is also put down as Tuatti.”

Te Aute,
Wiki thought. Even more warily, he asked, “Do you know the name of his home village in New Zealand?”

“He said a name that sounded like
Maketu,
and told me that it is on the east coast of your northern island.”

Wiki said nothing, but his face had given him away, because Mr. Hale said with disappointment, “You aren't pleased?”

That was a gross understatement, but Wiki merely said, “His tribe is different to mine. He is Ngati Porou; I am Ngapuhi.”

“So he will not be overjoyed to meet you?”

He's much more likely to kill me,
Wiki thought.

*   *   *

They cantered around the next bend to find that the party had stopped in an untidy huddle, because a man was standing in the middle of the path. This time, it was not the courtly customs man, but instead a portly fellow wearing the complete costume of a gaucho. His shirt was red-striped, and there was a red sash about his rotund waist, which held up his
calzoncillos
—long white drawers. Scarlet
chiripá
Turkish trousers were draped about the underpants, drawn up between his legs and lashed fore and aft to the sash, which was reinforced by a traditional broad leather belt. One of the huge facóns that the gauchos made by snapping a sword short and then sharpening it to a wicked point was thrust slantwise into the back of his belt. A folded poncho hung over one shoulder.

The apparition called out heartily,
“¡Che!”

Captain Ringgold turned in his saddle, and beckoned. Wiki cantered to the front of the crowd, summed up the fellow in one comprehensive glance, and said in English, “How do you do?”

“Dr. Ducatel, at your service,” replied the other in a broad Yankee accent, not a whit abashed.

“You're
another
American?” exclaimed Captain Ringgold.

“I am indeed—and proud of it, too.”

“My God, how many of the rascals are there?” muttered Ringgold.

“He's a surgeon,” Wiki informed him, seeing Ducatel's brows shoot up at the news that he was known to this brown stranger.

Ringgold, however, looked even less impressed. “A
doctor
?” he expostulated. “How long have you been living in this hole, for God's sake?”

The surgeon transferred his gaze to the sky, evidently counting, because he finally said, “Five years? Perhaps as few as four.”

“Doing
what
?”

“A variety of things, sir—a medley of accomplishments! To put it in a nutshell,” Ducatel elaborated freely, “I graduated from the New York College of Physicians and Surgeons in 1832, but while the degree was substantial, my funds were slight. Accordingly, I signed articles as a ship's surgeon, but then made the unfortunate choice of leaving the ship at Montevideo. I'd heard that
médicos
were in short supply up the Río Negro, the most southern outpost of civilization in the Americas, and so I journeyed here. And, believe it or not, sir, I actually did quite well for a while! However, the tyrant of Buenos Aires has put an end to that, so you see me making my money any way I can. Is your business urgent?” he inquired. “I've good beef to sell, if you need it in a hurry.”