Deadly Shoals (26 page)

“We sailed from Salem in November 1837, in a snowstorm,” the apprentice readily recited. “Sailed around the Cape of Good Hope and took the Great Circle route to Hobart, then nor'ard through the Tasman Sea to shift gin and Yankee notions at the Bay of Islands. There, we traded our tobacco for sperm-whale teeth with the whaling masters in port—fetched the Fijis in April 1838, traded away our teeth and smoked a load of bêche-de-mer—made Whampoa in August; shifted our sea slugs for lacquerware—went to Manila, traded off our lacquerware, and loaded tortoiseshell for New York. In September we sailed for home, but were run afoul of in Rio—”

“So these boys have been a whole year at sea, huh?” the boatswain interrupted rather hastily, the fact that the
Osprey
had been so badly hammered by ships of the expedition fleet being more than a little embarrassing. “So maybe there's a chance,” he mused aloud, “that they know where to find the keelson, and are maybe even cognizant that it ain't part of the bowsprit. What d'you reckon about that, Mr. Seward?”

Mr. Seward merely smiled.

Taking this as acquiescence, the boatswain set to testing the boys' seamanship, barking at one of them, “Do you know how to pass a nipper, boy? Clap on a jigger? Choke a luff? Snake the backstays? Fleet a purchase?”

“All of that,” the lad replied brightly. “And to crown a crotch rope, too, sir!”

“You reckon you know all your hitches, bends, clinches, and splices?”

“Aye, sir!”

“Then do me the favor of naming a few.”

“There's the clove hitch, the timber hitch, the Blackwall hitch, the rolling hitch, and the two half-hitches. And there's the sheet bend and the curricle bend; the inside clinch and the outside clinch; the carrick bend, the marline hitch, and the cackling, sir. And there's the—”

“Stop, stop!” cried the boatswain of the
Vincennes,
who was starting to laugh. “It looks like you've done a reasonable good job of coaching these scions of the high and mighty, Mr. Seward, and no doubt they're all keen to do a little skylarking while you wait for Captain Coffin's return. You would allow it, if I asked?” Discerning a nod, he turned back to the boys, saying, “Well, my lads, just remember to never let go one rope until you've clapped a good hold of another, and you should all do jes' fine.”

No sooner had said lads swarmed up the weather main shrouds with a cheerful disregard of frozen hands, than a marine marched up to Wiki, saluted, and said, “Captain Wilkes begs the pleasure of your company, Mr. Coffin.”

Wiki hadn't noticed that his father was included in the invitation, but as he passed through the portico Captain Coffin emerged from the shadows, and stepped up alongside, and they marched up the passage shoulder to shoulder. George Rochester looked his usual placid self as they passed him in the corridor, and his expression betrayed nothing, though his eyebrows rose high at the sight of Wiki's father.

Captain Wilkes, by contrast, looked dreadful. His long face was perfectly white, and it was obvious that he had an appalling headache, because his large eyes were full of pain and he kept on drawing his hand over his forehead. Dr. Fox was there, giving him a potion. When it was drunk he nodded, and left them alone with the commodore, going out with the tumbler in his hand.

“Captain Coffin,” said Wilkes wearily. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

Instead of answering, Captain Coffin looked around, chose a seat at one of the chart desks, set down his top hat, crossed his legs, and said amiably, “Strange weather we've been experiencing of late. Do you think it might be due to icebergs?”

“Captain, I'm sure you have come across sudden calms before.”

“That phosphorescence surely did bring back memories,” William Coffin benignly agreed. “Such as one time in the South China Sea when my ship was besieged by six-inch balls of blue fire. One of 'em rolled down the mainstay, jumped onto the chain cable, hissed like a cat, and exploded! My old bo'sun was standing with his foot on the chain holding a lantern, and I swear to you that every pane in that lantern sundered into a thousand pieces. As for him, his hair stood on end, and he was stuck to the spot for several moments, while the helmsman fell over sideways, as rigid as a statue—when we carried him to his berth, it was like heaving along a plank. He was still stiff as a board next morning, though alive, thank God. Which reminds me,” he concluded, following some peculiar internal logic, “that those two carpenters you sent me are back on board the
Vin,
and glad we were to be rid of them, too. Now, sir, I've come to tell you I'll steer for home with no further delay.”

There was dead silence. Captain Wilkes had his eyes tight shut. Then he opened them and said flatly, “Captain Coffin.”

Captain Coffin waited, and when the other kept silent, said, “Captain Wilkes?”

“Do you have any
idea
what a strain I am under? What difficulties have presented themselves? Yesterday morning I gave orders for boats from all ships to carry out a survey of the mouth of the roadstead, and would have supervised the operation myself, but was laboring under one of the horrid headaches that afflict me more and more often as this voyage proceeds. However, the orders were explicit, and should have been easily followed. In the afternoon a squall blew up, but still I managed to hold a conference with the scientifics. After that, it was discovered that nearly all the boats had rendezvoused at the
Porpoise,
which was
not
in their program of duties—and when I finally investigated, I found that the officers had seized upon Captain Ringgold's absence to make merry on board his brig. Here I am at my
wits' end
to know how best to express my extreme displeasure, and now you
bother
me with this disinclination to follow our clear agreement.”

Captain Coffin thought about it. Then he said judiciously, “Well, sir, you can scarcely place any blame on Captain Ringgold.”

“Of course not! He was not even
there
. Unlike Lieutenant Craven—my
flag lieutenant,
for God's sake—who was the officer in charge of the
Vincennes
boats.”

“He was on board the
Porpoise
?”

“He took part in the jollification!”

Captain Coffin's brows shot up and his left eye opened wide. “Good God,” he said, with every evidence of sympathy for a fellow shipmaster in a pickle.

“So you agree that I have no choice but to suspend him? That his disregard of his proper duty and his failure to preserve discipline is too outrageous to be passed over? That he should be demoted, as an example to the rest?”

“Well, sir, I guess it depends on whether you have a suitable replacement.”

“Luckily, I do. The next-oldest lieutenant is a loyal and reliable man. Indeed, I consider him a friend. He and I have shared many years of service, including a survey of the savannah, where he proved himself a loyal and reliable assistant, particularly during gravitational observations—we swung the pendulum together as midshipmen!”

“Then your problem is solved, sir,” said Captain Coffin heartily.

“One problem among many!” Captain Wilkes's face hardened again. “So what the
hell
do you mean by taxing me further with this outrageous demand to forgo the terms of our agreement?”

Captain Coffin echoed, “Terms?”

“Aye, Captain—the agreement that you would take the rest of our specimens on board before departing for Philadelphia. Sir, you will wait until we're ready; you will not leave until I say!” Then, with startling suddenness, Captain Wilkes swerved round at Wiki, and demanded, “And what the hell is it that
you
want?”

Wiki only just stopped himself from jumping a foot with shock. Instead, he braced himself, and said, “I thought it was only proper to make a full accounting of my four days up the Río Negro—and ask your advice about how to proceed.”

He had chosen his words well, he saw, because Captain Wilkes nodded, and said briskly, “Yes?”

Wiki hesitated, wondering whether Captain Stackpole had changed his mind about reporting to Captain Wilkes, but then started at the beginning, with Captain Stackpole's report of the loss of both money and schooner, and the decision to go to El Carmen to investigate his complaint of piracy. As his story progressed, it became obvious that this was the first the commodore of the expedition had heard of the outcome of the visit to Adams's store, and he wondered again about Stackpole's strange change of attitude. However, the fact that it was news made the telling easier.

“We found the store cleared out of its provisions, and the clerk extremely uncooperative,” he continued. “Providentially, some gaucho trackers arrived, and offered to follow the trail of the horse train that had packed the goods out. They said they led upriver, where we hoped to find the schooner loading salt at the dunes.”

“But you didn't?”

“No, sir. She was long gone. However, we pursued the tracks further, and found the murdered body of the storekeeper who had stolen the schooner.”

Captain Wilkes's fine, large eyes sparked with interest.
“Murdered?”

“Aye, sir.” Wiki gestured, and said, “He'd been stabbed with a large knife in the lower part of the chest.”

Both Captain Wilkes and his father were watching him with riveted attention. “Where did you find the corpse?” demanded Captain Wilkes, while his father, more perceptively, said, “What led you to it?”

“Vultures,” said Wiki, answering the second question, and described the trek past the
salinas,
the gruesome discovery of the exposed, picked skull at the foot of the Gualichú tree, and the uncovering of the rest of the corpse in the salt beneath.

Captain Wilkes was frowning, but not with pain or anger—indeed, he seemed to have forgotten his headache. He said, “That's a very strange place to bury a murdered man. It's as if the killer wanted him to be found.”

“But we would never have found him if Adams hadn't convulsed just before he died so that his head came up out of the salt,” Wiki objected.

“Is that what you think happened? That he convulsed?” And, to Wiki's amazement, Captain Wilkes abandoned dignity and stretched his long body on the deck. Lying down, he said, “He was stabbed in the chest—here?”

The commodore's finger pointed at a spot six inches above his middle. Wiki nodded, and Captain Wilkes clenched his fist, brought it down, slammed himself in the rib cage, and reared up his head. For a moment, he brought back the sight of the dead man's arched torso so vividly that gooseflesh chilled on the back of Wiki's neck.

He said rather weakly, “Aye, sir.” After a second's thought, he added, “He had also been shot in the head—with a rifle, I think. My impression was that he reared up out of the salt in the last spasm of death just as the killer was turning away, and the murderer was so shocked that he shot him. Then, because he was spooked, he galloped off without reburying the head.”

“Really?” Captain Wilkes remained in that position a moment, staring awkwardly at Wiki from above his chest. Then he rose to his feet with more agility than Wiki would have expected, remarking, “Confoundedly uncomfortable.” Seating himself in one of the chart chairs, he picked up a pencil and tapped it rhythmically on the top of the desk, deep in thought. A healthy pink had crept into his cheeks.

“How long is it before rigor mortis sets in, do you know?” he asked.

Wiki thought back to his conversation with Dr. Ducatel while they were studying the corpse of the clerk, but only came up with the memory of being told that rigor mortis took three or four days to dissipate. He confessed, “I don't know.”

“You don't? What kind of sheriff's deputy are you?” However, Captain Wilkes's tone was relatively mild. He went to the doors, opened one, stuck his head out, and yelled for Dr. Fox, who came at the run. “How soon after death does rigor mortis set in?” he demanded.

The surgeon looked around rather wildly, and then stuttered, “F-five to t-ten hours, sir.” Swallowing, he said, “May I inquire why you ask?”

“No, you can't,” Captain Wilkes snapped, and Dr. Fox looked around again, took the hint, and went away. As soon as the door clicked shut, Captain Wilkes turned to Wiki and said, “So why didn't the shot knock the head back into the grave?”

Wiki had anticipated the question, so said at once, “The salt had sifted down into the hole, and formed a sort of pillow.”

“Hm,” said the commodore. “I suppose that makes sense.” Then he asked, “What kind of man was this storekeeper?”

“Caleb Adams? Short and wiry.” Wiki itemized what the dead man had been wearing, including the amulet about his neck, and then said, “It's really impossible to tell what his face was like before the vultures got at him.”

“I meant, what
kind
of man was he?”

“I don't know,” Wiki replied, flustered. “I'd never been up the Río Negro before; I'd never met him. Captain Stackpole—”

“Captain Stackpole knew him well?”

“According to the store's books, Captain Stackpole had done a lot of business with him over the past few years. He had no doubt about the identity of the body, even though the face was gone.”

“You went through the store's books—to track past transactions?”

“That's how I found the bill of sale for the schooner.” Wiki described finding the deed in the back of the ledger, going on to repeat what Dr. Ducatel had told them about the death of the seller, Captain Hallett, at the surgeon's own ranch.

“Then, when Captain Stackpole wanted to know what had happened to his bank draft after Hallett died,” he continued, “Dr. Ducatel became angry, and demanded to see the deed as proof that the sale had really happened, so we went back to the store. It was locked, but we used Dr. Ducatel's key to gain entrance—and found the body of Adams's clerk.”