Run Afoul (17 page)

“It was indeed the brigantine,” George agreed thoughtfully.

“Well, I didn't know that anything amiss had occurred until Midshipman Dicken told me about it.” Wiki paused, very aware of both his father and George staring at him, and added rather awkwardly, “He also said that the
Swallow
got off very lightly.”

“He's right,” agreed George, looking even more pensive.

“He went on to say that you almost sunk the poor barky.”

“He did,” said William Coffin grimly.

Light dawned. Wiki exclaimed, “She was
your
ship?”

“She was.”

“Oh dear! And she's badly damaged?”

“As your informant told you, the
Swallow
almost sunk me.”

“It was not
like
that,” Rochester exclaimed. “Tell him the truth, old chap—that it was you who run into me, and
not
the other way around.”

Instead of answering, William Coffin watched Wiki broodingly. “You didn't recognize the
Osprey?
”

“No, I did not,” said Wiki, and shook his head. So this was the reason his father was so cross with him, he thought. He reached out, picked up a pastry triangle in his fingers, and ate it. It was warm and tasted of cheese. He liked it, so took another as he said, “The last time I saw her, she was a full-rigged brig, and I remember her as a topsail schooner. What do you expect, if you keep on changing the rig?”

“You sailed on her often enough!”

“The last time I sailed on her,” Wiki said deliberately, looking his father right in the eye, “I was fifteen years old.”

There was a short, dead silence. Then Wiki became conscious that Forsythe was looking very alertly from Captain Coffin to himself, with an ominous air of being on the verge of some shrewd conclusion. Before he could say anything disastrous, however, George Rochester forestalled him by complaining, “The accident happened
days
ago. Where the devil have you been?”

So this was why George was annoyed with him, too, Wiki thought. “It was quite out of my control,” he assured him. “I was kidnapped by the commander of USS
Independence,
and after that I was in prison.”

His father thundered,
“What?”

Wiki reached out for another snack. This one was a cube of fried meat. He put it in his mouth and immediately wished that he hadn't. Not only was it tough, but it had been cooked in a very hot pepper sauce. Sweat broke out on his brow, and his ears felt as if they were on fire.

“Prison?”
George exclaimed.

Wiki swallowed the fiery morsel, wondering at the same time what damage it would do to his vitals.
“E hoa,”
he told him, “you do not have the slightest notion what a fascinating few days I've spent. No sooner was I on board the
Independence
than Jovial Jack Nicholson jumped to the conclusion that it was outrageously unfair that Captain Wilkes should have a man to write his letters when he did not, and so he purloined me.”

His father exclaimed, “What did you do to get into
prison,
for God's sake? What the hell have you been up to
now?
”

“Nothing,” said Wiki, rather haughtily.

“They must have charged you with something!”

“As a matter of fact, they did not. They threw me into the brig as an accessory to murder, that's all. Robert Festin was the one they charged.”

“Festin?” George exclaimed. “The
cook?
”

“He's no mere cook,” Wiki reproved him.

“And he got off,” Forsythe reassured Rochester.

“What the hell is this about letter-writing?” demanded William Coffin.

“It's all George's fault,” accused Wiki.

“Me?”
Rochester exclaimed.

“Aye. Because of you, I shipped as the expedition linguister, and I went on board the
Vin
as the expedition linguister, too,” Wiki said. “After that, I somehow ended up as Captain Wilkes's amanuensis.”

“Amanuensis?” said William Coffin, rather faintly. It was obvious that he had never heard the word before, and George looked equally baffled.

“Captain Wilkes and Commodore Nicholson have engaged in a paper war, and I'm the chief wielder of the pen.”

“Paper war?” asked Rochester with lively interest. When Wiki reached out for another of the pastry triangles, he pulled the plate out of range, sampled one with appreciation, and then proceeded to eat the rest.

Wiki told him all about it, feeling a lot better now that George was back to his normal placid self. Indeed, he felt quite relaxed, and was beginning to wonder if the
real
food would ever arrive, when he abruptly realized that his father's expression was more thunderous than ever.

“It sounds as if you're nothing better than a bloody clerk,” he exclaimed.

“You're right,” agreed Wiki.

“But I didn't bring you up for that!”

“No?” said Wiki, lifting an ironic eyebrow. “And what
did
you bring me up for, pray?”

Captain Coffin's own eyebrows snapped down, but before he could reply Forsythe interrupted, stabbing an unsteady finger at him.

“I bet I know your problem,” he said triumphantly.

They all stared at the Virginian, while Wiki struggled to think of some way to forestall whatever disastrous conclusion he was on the brink of revealing. However, with terrible lack of judgment, his father jumped in.

“What the devil do you mean?” he demanded.

“As I told you afore, you should be bloody proud of your boy, but you seem to be constant upset, instead, and I reckon it's because he don't behave like the respectable, scandal-fearin' Yankee that would be a credit to you and your wife. You're expectin' far too much, you know,” Forsythe said wisely. “Even though he might be half American, it's the Maori half that counts.”

William Coffin had gone red in the face, but now the scarlet ebbed, leaving his cheeks very white. Leveling a gray-eyed stare at the southerner, he said very evenly, “You don't know what you're talking about.”

“On the contrary,
sir,
I know a goddamned lot,” Forsythe replied, taking drunken umbrage at this perceived affront. “Back in the year 1828 I hired myself out to a Ngapuhi chief, and it was a bloody interesting experience. I learned a
lot.
They might be goddamned cannibal savages, and
savage
savages, at that, but you have to admire their—”

He broke off and hunted for the word he wanted, while Wiki stared at him in speechless horror. “Their
appetite,
I guess you can call it,” he said at last, and smiled and nodded with satisfaction at his choice. “That's it, their
appetite
for life. They might be scoundrels what will steal anythin' what ain't nailed down, but they're bloody brave warriors and seamen, too, and are as fond of the girls as any proper sailor—only earlier. And I bet that was a real big problem for you, Captain Coffin, sir. They mature goddamned early—their balls drop at the age of ten, or so I was informed—and you took him to Salem when he was twelve, right? Or was it thirteen? Whatever, I bet it wasn't long at all before Wiki was
waltzing
with pretty Yankee women what rightfully belonged to others, and creating scandals that set you at odds with your neighbors and friends, not to mention your wife.”

Captain Coffin swerved round to George. “What the
hell
have you been telling him?”

“Nothing,” said Rochester quickly. “I haven't even had the chance—” Then he stopped and grimaced, evidently on the verge of a horrible blunder.

Wiki put down his napkin, and stood up. He was hot with embarrassment that that long-ago headstrong affair should come back to haunt him yet again, and his mouth was dry with disappointment that the unexpected reunion with his father should turn out like this. When they all looked at him he said quietly, “I think it would be a good idea for me to go.”

“You stay right where you are!” Captain Coffin thundered—and the restauranteur came back into the room, accompanied by the lean, elegant gentleman with the patchy complexion Wiki had noticed in the courtroom.

When Captain Coffin and Rochester stood up, Forsythe stumbled to his feet, too. Wiki watched his father walk up to the newcomer and vigorously shake hands. Though Captain Coffin was still very pale, his manner was as everyday as if nothing out of the usual had happened. Then the two men turned, and walked toward the table.

William Coffin indicated George. “Captain Rochester—my good friend, Sir Patrick Palgrave,” he said. Then, after George and the newcomer had shaken hands, he said, “Lieutenant—Forsythe, isn't it?”

Palgrave shook hands with Forsythe, too, urbanely ignoring his tipsy condition. Then, when he turned to Wiki, an expression of surprise crossed his face. “Haven't I seen you before?” he inquired. He reached into a pocket for a pair of spectacles so he could study Wiki closely, while Wiki, growing angry, stared right back.

Close up, it was obvious that Sir Patrick Palgrave had lost a lot of the natural pigmentation in his skin, because only parts of his face were tanned, while the rest had been reddened by the sun instead of going brown. The scars on his cheeks and nose were shiny. Otherwise, he looked rather a lot like a squirrel, with the same broad nose and bright, rather protuberant eyes.

“William, who is this?” he asked Captain Coffin.

“My son,” Captain Coffin said gruffly.

“Your …
what?
”

“My son, Wiki.”

“You old dog! Tell me, which voyage was it?”

Silence—dead silence. Instead of answering, Captain Coffin numbly gestured at them all to sit down. Wiki was angry enough to stay, so took his seat, as well. In the awful quiet, the scrape of chairs seemed deafening.

George Rochester, obviously desperate to fill the embarrassing hush, blurted out, “Captain Coffin told me how he saved you from shipwreck.”

Sir Patrick's eyebrows lifted higher than ever, and George went red in the face, obviously appalled at the possibility that he had broken a confidence. However, Palgrave smiled affably at him and agreed, “I owe my life to my friend.”

Wiki was puzzled, because his father had never mentioned this. He said, “When did this happen, Sir Patrick?”

Palgrave glanced at him as if surprised that a man who looked like Wiki should interrupt with such natural confidence, but answered readily enough, “Three years ago.”

“In a storm?”

“No, the weather was calm.”

“So how, then?”

Captain Coffin said, “Wiki, I don't think—”

However, Sir Patrick Palgrave had already begun to reply. “We were just three days out from Montevideo,” he said. “Or nights, I should say,” he amended, “as we sailed in the evening. On the third night we struck something—a whale, perhaps. The thud woke me, and then I realized that the ship was rapidly filling. By the time I got out of my berth and grabbed some clothes, the water was knee-deep in the stateroom. I was the only passenger, and how I managed to get onto the deck, I have not a notion. A moment later, the ship rolled over, and I found myself swimming. I was fortunate enough to strike up against a boat, and struggle into it. I heard a few cries, but saw no one, and when morning dawned I was all alone in an empty sea.”

Wiki frowned. “No other survivors at all?”

Sir Patrick Palgrave shook his head, and Captain Coffin said, “I asked the master of every vessel I spoke to to keep a sharp lookout for other boats, and posted the news at the seamen's Bethel in Rio, when we got here. Later, the Bethel informed me that official tidings had come from Montevideo—that the entire crew of the
Pagoda
had been lost.”

Wiki turned back to Sir Patrick. “How long were you in the boat?”

“Later, I learned that I had been drifting for nine days when the lookout on the
Osprey
raised me. I must have been unconscious for at least three. My drinking water had run out, and the few provisions long before that. Another day, and I would have been dead. It's a miracle that I survived at all.”

It certainly was, Wiki thought—and it accounted for Sir Patrick's odd appearance, too, because he must have been terribly burned by the sun. “And the
Osprey
brought you to Rio?”

“Aye.” Sir Patrick paused, and then said sentimentally, “That was when I fell in love with the woman who is now my wife, and made up my mind to settle.”

“You're English, judging by your accent.”

Palgrave frowned; it was as if he prided himself on having become so cosmopolitan that he had lost his accent, and was chagrined to find that his origins were still identifiable. There was a pause as everyone waited, and when he remained silent, Wiki said, “I saw you at the inquest today.”

“The coroner's inquest into the death of the poor man who was poisoned?” inquired the other, suddenly relaxing. “Of course—I remember now, you're the interpreter from the expedition!”

“Aye,” said Wiki. He remembered that he had had his back to the courtroom during the greater part of the proceedings, and supposed that was the reason Palgrave had taken so long to recognize him. Then he remembered the spectacles, and thought that Sir Patrick's sight might be poor.

“Terrible affair, terrible,” the Englishman said. “The entire town was appalled when Robert Festin was charged with the poisoning, and when the verdict of not guilty was heard, the relief was felt by all.”

“So I noticed,” Wiki murmured. He saw Forsythe open his mouth, and tensed, but luckily they were interrupted as the maid came in to clear away the dishes and used wineglasses.

It was the same pretty girl. As she left she cast Wiki another bold smile. As he winked in return, he heard Rochester clear his throat and observe, “This is a very fine hotel.”