Deadly Shoals (14 page)

“As the man who discovered the corpse, Mr. Hale's best qualified for that.”

“Me?”
Horatio Hale exclaimed. His face was a picture of horror.

“You,” confirmed Wiki. “And you're the best man to inform Captain Ringgold what has happened, too. Tell him I'm heading for the estuary to report to Captain Wilkes.”

And with that, he briskly turned on his heel, before Hale and Ducatel could start arguing again.

*   *   *

Two hours later they had almost reached the boat-landing place on the estuary, when Stackpole looked over his shoulder, and said, “What's happening back there?”

Wiki reined in, and looked around, too. Sounds of fast galloping echoed from behind them. In a crescendo of hoofbeats, Bernantio and his gauchos arrived pell-mell from around a bend, hollering happily as they sighted Wiki. Horatio Hale was with them, looking flushed but gamely keeping up. Wiki gave him an ironic salute as he hurtled by.

Then, after the philologist had managed to rein in and come back, Wiki queried with his brows arched, “Aren't you supposed to be at the governor's feast?”

Mr. Hale shook his head. When he'd regained his breath, he said, “Captain Ringgold sent me with an urgent message.”

Wiki said warily, “For me?”

“Yes. He wanted me to pass on his most strict instructions that you are
not
to take this investigation any further. He said it is none of your business, and that you are
not
to bother Captain Wilkes with it.”

“You did tell him about discovering the clerk's body?”

“Of course. He vowed it did not make a shred of difference—that it is still a matter for the local authorities.”

Wiki made no comment, though he was privately determined to go on board the
Vincennes
and make a full report. After all, Captain Wilkes, not Ringgold, was the commodore of the expedition. “Well,” he said, “I'm sorry it cost you a fine meal. Why are the gauchos with you?”

“Captain Ringgold decided I needed an escort, since the governor's people informed him that the mood of the province is still one of high excitement. By great good luck Señor Bernantio and his friends arrived at that very moment, as Captain Ringgold wanted to retain Dr. Ducatel as a guide for his own party.”

“Where are they going?”

“Nowhere—not tonight, anyway. Captain Ringgold, Mr. Waldron, and Lieutenant Perry will all attend the banquet, and then stop the night at the fort before returning in the morning. Which leads me to my second message,” Hale added.

“Another message? For me?”

“No, not for you, but for Mr. Peale, Dr. Fox, and Dr. Holmes, informing them that we are all to be on the riverbank landing at nine in the morning, ready to go off to the
Sea Gull
.”

“Why, where are they?” asked Wiki, feeling puzzled, because when he had left that morning, Titian Peale and the two surgeon-scientists had been on board the
Sea Gull,
and he'd had the impression they would have a boat at their disposal for the day, so that they could explore the estuary at leisure.

At that moment Titian Peale himself appeared from the seaward end of the path, trailed by Doctors Fox and Holmes. All three were on foot. They looked hot, dusty, disheveled, and extremely aggrieved, and Mr. Hale's message didn't improve their tempers in the slightest.

“So we'll have to spend the night at the pilothouse,” griped Dr. Fox.

“And it's nothing better than a filthy
hovel,
” Dr. Holmes declared.

“There's only one word for it,” Titian Peale decided. “We've been
marooned
. And not only is it inconvenient, but it's
humiliating
.”

Then the trio competed to grumble loudly to Mr. Hale about the horrible day they'd passed. After Ringgold's party had ridden off that morning, the boat had collected them from the
Sea Gull,
and dropped them on shore. The three scientists had explored the terrain contentedly for a while, collecting samples of shells, grass, thorny bushes, and aromatic plants, and shooting a number of birds. However, when they had returned to the riverbank, and made signs requesting to be taken off, they had been completely disregarded. Finally, in belated response to their shouted pleas, one of the surveying boats had deigned to approach the bank—but only to convey the message that Captain Ringgold had left orders that no boat was to be sent for the scientifics until it was time for the
Sea Gull
to leave the river.

“And since then they've ignored us
completely,
” exclaimed Dr. Holmes. “The boats have all steered in other directions, and anyone who has emerged onto deck has
very carefully
looked the other way.”

Wiki looked at the
Sea Gull,
which was bobbing quietly at her anchors. There was no activity whatsoever on her deck, and there were no boats to be seen. They were off surveying, he supposed.

“As I've told you time and time again throughout our voyage on the
Peacock,
the attitude of the officers to the scientifics has been unacceptable,” Mr. Peale said to Mr. Hale.

Dr. Holmes (who also lived on the
Peacock
) nodded emphatically. “But this is utterly beyond words!” he expostulated.

“I'm going to post a strong complaint with Captain Wilkes when I get back to the fleet,” decided Mr. Peale. “If ever I do,” he added broodingly.

Then Manuel Bernantio interrupted this to-and-fro grumble by riding up to Wiki and jerking his head downstream. When Wiki looked in that direction he saw a great cloud of gulls dipping and diving about an unseen spot on the bank of the river, and could hear their strident screeching.

“Something is dead,” the gaucho remarked.

With an abrupt chill, Wiki was reminded of the vultures. When he kept silent Titian Peale answered. Evidently he understood some Spanish, though he used English when he explained, “That's what's left of my specimens.”

Wiki said, “What specimens?”

“Birds, mostly. I got an excellent bag.”

“Mr. Peale is a very fine shot,” Mr. Hale proudly elaborated. “I've personally seen him kill two turkeys simultaneously with one bullet, and I am told that he has been known to dispatch two deer with one shot, too.”

“The bag today did include a fine buck,” Mr. Peale admitted, not at all embarrassed by this callow display of hero worship. “Dr. Fox and I carried the carcass for several miles in the heat, thinking it would make a fine present for the officers' supper, but after one hour and a half of waiting
in vain
for them to notice us from the ship, we dumped it.”

“You let it go to
waste
?” Wiki exclaimed.

“It was exactly what their uncivil behavior deserved,” said Dr. Fox.

“Just to make a
point
?” Wiki was shocked, because he had learned thrift from a very early age. Though his father had taken him away from his
iwi
in the Bay of Islands at the age of twelve, he vividly remembered the long, damp winters when the village
pataka
—the long, low, elaborately carved storehouse that was on stilts to guard the precious contents from rats and thieves—had been their bulwark against starvation. Throughout the summers and autumns the young bloods carried in great nets of birds they had snared, which were cooked and then preserved in gourds in their own fat, and the older men contributed great loads of fish and eels, which were hung to dry on racks. All this, stored in the
pataka,
ensured the survival of the tribe over the dark months when food was scarce.

“They can watch it rot, and good luck to them,” Mr. Peale sniffed.

When Wiki conveyed this to Manuel Bernantio, the
rastreador
agreed that it was quite incomprehensible. The other gauchos clustered around to offer their own opinions, and then became very animated at the prospect of game. “Where did you find this buck?” Mr. Peale was asked, through Wiki, and when he waved an arm toward the headland at the top of the cliff, Bernantio cried,
“¡Vamos!”

“¡Vámonos!”
the rest yelled, and spurred their steeds up the sliding gravel.

When Wiki arrived at the top himself, it was to find that the gauchos were rapidly vanishing into the dusty distance, looking oddly like small craft disappearing over the horizon at sea, their horses fading first, then their bodies, and lastly their heads. He didn't try to pursue them, as he was more interested in riding to the flagstaff and hoisting a signal. Obviously, he couldn't rely on a boat coming from the
Sea Gull,
and so his best hope was that someone on the
Swallow
was keeping a watch, and would send a boat to fetch him.

When he arrived there, it was to find that the scene from the headland was quite a contrast to the day before. The sun sparkled bravely on the dipping waves. All the expedition ships, save the schooner
Sea Gull,
were anchored well beyond the surf with their boats down. Wiki could plainly see the
Osprey
tacking slowly back and forth on smoother water a mile farther out to sea, and again he wondered what his father was doing here. Just to seaward of the bar the shoals were dotted with surveying boats, presumably including those that belonged to the
Sea Gull
. Closer still, the sky over the river was full of gulls drawn by the carcasses Mr. Peale had dumped, and their screeching seemed to ring as high as the scudding clouds.

Then Wiki abruptly became aware not only that Stackpole had joined him at the foot of the flagpost but that the whaleman was in a state of high excitement. “Look!” he shouted, and pointed. “See that! I do reckon she's the
Trojan
—and trying out blubber, by heaven! Tell me, boy—do you think she's the
Trojan
?”

Squinting in the same direction, Wiki saw a puff of black smoke issuing from a ship that was gradually plowing toward the fleet—a nasty puff of smoke with hellish tints of red and orange on its bottom edges. He did not have a notion whether she was the
Trojan
or not, but certainly agreed that the foul, black cloud was a sign of a whaleship boiling whale blubber into oil. He knew that because it was something he had experienced firsthand—often, much more often than he liked.

However, he didn't answer, instead watching Stackpole with hidden amusement. Ever since he had first shipped on a whaler at the age of just seventeen, when Captain Coffin's wife had rid herself of his embarrassing presence by signing him onto her brother's elderly Nantucket whaleship
Paths of Duty,
it had amazed him how revitalizing the taking of a whale could be for a career whaleman. Wiki had seen gray-bearded captains who were depressed to the point of suicide prance about like young colts when whales were raised, and even the most ill-paid seamen dance for joy as blubber was hoisted on board. Now Stackpole, who a moment before had looked depressed, defeated, and exhausted, had dropped at least ten years from his age.

“Get a signal up that spar, young man,” he ordered, as if Wiki were one of his hands. “I need to be on board my ship—signal for a boat, for God's sake! She has to be the
Trojan
! Oh, my Lord, I'd trade my mother-in-law for a spyglass! My mother-in-law? By God, I'd give away my wife!”

However, when Wiki looked around, the usual box of signals wasn't there at the foot of the pole. Evidently, they were stored back in the pilothouse. “The crew wouldn't notice a flag, anyway,” he commented. “You know what it's like when they're trying out—they'll be far too busy to pay attention.”

“Trying out—yes, trying out!” Stackpole repeated in an ecstasy of delight.

Wiki's attention was distracted by faint shouts and the sounds of galloping that echoed from the distance, gradually drawing closer. Then he glimpsed busy clouds of dust. With shrill cries the gauchos loomed from several points of the compass, their whirled ponchos and long hair appearing first, floating out with the wind of their progress, and then their lean, taut frames. When they thundered into sight, gradually converging, Wiki saw that they were driving a panicked buck before them.

Nearer they came, nearer. Wiki became aware that Stackpole had hastily dismounted and was dragging his horse out of the way, but he remained steadfast, bolt upright in his saddle, eyes narrowed as he watched the oncoming rush, calculating that the deer would burst past twenty feet to his right. As if of its own volition, his hand sought out the thin plait of the lariat that was coiled at the side of his saddle. He shook it out, adjusting the iron ring at the end to make a noose before taking the loose loops in his left hand, watching the oncoming buck with slitted eyes, gauging pace and distance. It was a whole year since he had last cast the
lazo,
but the thrill of the hunt was pulsing through his veins.

His wrist pivoted, and the noose curved out, smoothly gleaming as it caught the sun. His throw looked perfect—and then it all went cataclysmically wrong. The lariat tapped the ground, bounced, writhed like a snake, and flickered back to curl viciously about his horse's legs.

She lurched, stumbled, and crashed to the ground. If Wiki had the European habit of keeping his feet home in the stirrups, he would have gone with her, to meet a quick, brutal end beneath her threshing weight. Instead, he jumped free, arms whirling as he spun through the air. His ears were full of the mare's scream of surprise and rage, the thunder as the chase pounded past, and the shouting of the scientifics, who had arrived to witness the drama.

Wiki hit the ground running, miraculously keeping his feet. The thump as his soles struck the dirt jolted the breath out of his chest. However, not only had he kept his balance but he was safe yards from the kicking horse. He kept his wits, too, spinning at once to jump on the end of the trailing rein as the mare struggled unhurt to her feet, bringing her up short before she even thought of bolting away.