by Joan Druett
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.”
So this was why he’d lain in wait, Wiki deduced—when the ex-surgeon had heard rumors that the so-called French squadron was really an American fleet, he’d scented profitable trade. When Ringgold said nothing, evidently having lost track sometime during the monologue, Wiki said quickly to Ducatel, “Tell me, when did you last see Caleb Adams?”
“Why do you ask?” the surgeon said, puzzled. “I’ve been away for the past ten days, upcountry, and didn’t see much of him even before that.”
“Wiki,” said Ringgold warningly.
Wiki ignored him. “How about a man by the name of Rowland Hallett?”
“You mean Captain Hallett?”
“Captain?” Wiki echoed, surprised.
“Captain of the New York brig Athenian. When he first arrived, a couple of years back—about October 1836, I think, because it was the beginning of the sealing season—he acquired a schooner, to be used as a … tender? Is that the correct word for a small vessel that works alongside a big one?”
“It is,” said Wiki, all attention.
“The schooner was called the Grim Reaper,” said the physician, and let out a womanish giggle. Then he sobered and went on, “He hired a gang of Indians to do the killing and skinning, and did very well, I believe. In the sealing way, that is,” Ducatel amended, and then added, “The schooner came back about three weeks ago. The arrangement with the Indians was that they were to be returned to El Carmen de Patagones, and he was also anxious to consult with me professionally.”
“He was sick? Or did he want beef?”
“He’d been bitten in the hand by a bull seal—a common hazard with sealers, I believe—and gangrene had set in. I was forced to cut off his arm,” the surgeon went on, adding pridefully, “Though I have been forced to abandon my profession, I have retained my amputating instruments, along with the appropriate skills.”
“So where is he now?” Wiki urgently asked.
“The operation was a complete success,” the surgeon complacently said. “Unfortunately, the patient died.”
Six
When they got into the pueblo of El Carmen de Patagones, Ringgold and his party were greeted with terrified screams, then a commotion of loud slams as doors were swiftly barricaded. Within instants the alleys were empty, and the yellow dogs were back in control. Captain Ringgold reined in, looking around in astonishment, and the rest straggled to a halt.
A figure appeared at the end of the street, and ran stumblingly toward them—Stackpole, looking extremely dusty and disheveled. Wiki touched his mare with his heel, cantered up to him, and said, “Did you find the clerk?”
“What?” Stackpole blinked bloodshot eyes, and then said with complete lack of enthusiasm, “Oh, it’s you.”
“Who did you think it was?”
“Everybody here thought it was the French arriving at last.”
Wiki said sarcastically, “Didn’t that worry you?”
“I’ve got no personal quarrel with the French, and any official presence whatsoever would be a blessing, believe me. The governor couldn’t care less about the state of law and order in this province, and his troops are a bloody disgrace. I need men with guts and discipline, not a bunch of ex-felons pretending to be soldiers! Who’s that?” said the whaling master, and jerked his chin at Ringgold, who had jumped off his horse and was stalking their way on foot.
“A captain with the U.S. expedition fleet,” said Wiki.
“Well, thank God for that,” sa
id Stackpole. He stepped out to meet Ringgold, declaiming in ringing tones, “As an American citizen, I demand the protection of my nation!”
The captain bristled. “Who the hell are you?”
Wiki carried out introductions.
Ringgold removed his cocked hat, but neglected to shake hands. Instead, he said dangerously, “So you’re the man who requisitioned Wiki Coffin from the Swallow?”
“That’s me,” Stackpole agreed with spirit. “For the very good reason that I was robbed by a Yankee trader in these parts!”
“Your money was used to buy a schooner, I believe, and in your name, at that,” Captain Ringgold corrected, proving to Wiki that there was nothing wrong with his memory. “So you can scarcely say you were robbed.”
“But the schooner’s been stolen, which is just the same thing—and if stealing a ship ain’t piracy, then I don’t know what piracy is!”
That was a good point, as Ringgold’s expression betrayed. He said reluctantly, “Maybe we could help you—if the schooner sails the high seas. But where does she sail? Tell me that!”
“I can’t bloody well tell you that, because Adams has been murdered!” Stackpole exclaimed. “If I’d got to Rowland Hallett in time, I could’ve shaken it out of him, but he’s dead, too! He was hospitalized with gangrene, and died after that quack Ducatel cut off his bloody arm!”
“So I heard, and God bless his poor soul,” Ringgold said piously. “And as for Adams’s murder, I don’t intend to have anything to do with it. Murder’s a local matter.”
“But Adams was American!”
“You can’t expect us to go chasing after every Yankee adventurer who gets himself killed on foreign soil—it just ain’t practicable. Particularly when they seem to be as thick as fleas on a dog round these parts,” Ringgold added moodily, and then asked, “Have you informed the governor?”
“Of course I’ve informed the bloody governor!” Stackpole cried, almost beside himself. “But it didn’t help a bloody jot! When I asked what happened to my thousand-dollar bank draft after Hallett expired, he informed me that Hallett’s possessions were handed in as the law required, and there wasn’t any draft among them. When I told him that someone in the fort sick bay must’ve stolen it, he dismissed me in a rage!”
“Well, now that you’ve put it into his hands, you can’t expect me to interfere,” Ringgold snapped. “Not only would it be a diplomatic blunder, but Captain Wilkes would be cross. And it was most improper of you to requisition a member of our expedition to do your detective work! So good day to you, sir,” he concluded, and slapped on his hat with finality.
Stackpole spluttered, but Ringgold simply ignored him, turning to Wiki and saying, “Well, it looks as if the robbery and the murder have already been reported to the governor, so there’s no need for you to involve yourself further. Dr. Ducatel has offered to guide us to the fort, so we don’t need you for that, neither.”
“So I return to the Sea Gull?”
“No, you damn well don’t, because I ain’t finished with you yet. While Mr. Perry and Mr. Waldron and I are paying our respects to the governor, you’ll oblige me by taking Mr. Hale to the Indian camp.”
Wiki said in surprise, “The toldos?”
“Aye, if that’s what you call it. He wants to question the natives relative to their language. I believe they’re a confoundedly treacherous lot, so you’d better take your gaucho friends, too.”
Mr. Hale looked rather apprehensive at the prospect of being left alone with Wiki and his gaucho band, but he didn’t say anything, instead taking a fresh grip of his reins. Then he watched and waited as Wiki consulted with Bernantio about this new mission. By the time they had finished, Dr. Ducatel and the three expedition officers were well off in the distance, trailing up the hill on their way to the fort.
Wiki turned to Stackpole, who was moodily watching Ringgold and his companions retreat, and said, “Where’s your horse?”
The whaling master jerked his thumb over his shoulder at a hitching post up the head of the street, and said, “Why?”
“Have you talked to the Indians who went sealing with Rowland Hallett?”
Stackpole lifted his hat and scratched his head.
“Well, you should—so it would be a good idea to come along with us. Mr. Hale wants to make a list of Indian words, and while he’s at work you’ll have a chance to track down at least one of the men who went on that voyage.”
“But the Indian camp is on the other side of the river!” Stackpole exclaimed.
“Shall we hire a boat?” asked Mr. Hale.
Undoubtedly, he was trying to be helpful, but Wiki’s eyes crinkled up in a grin, and when he relayed it to Bernantio all the gauchos enjoyed a hearty laugh. “Horses do swim,” he said, and saw Stackpole wince, and Mr. Hale swallow hard.
However, they both kept up with the rest as the party cantered down the steps and galloped into the stream with a mighty splash that drenched Wiki to the waist, the gauchos whirling their ponchos over their heads to urge the horses on. It was easier than Stackpole and Hale might have dreaded, the steeds being used to swimming, but then a steep, slippery bank had to be mounted.
At the top, Wiki turned his snorting, shivering mare, and straightened in the saddle to survey the opposite shore, while water streamed down his legs and off her sides. El Carmen looked smaller from this perspective, perhaps because the pueblo was so compactly tucked into the cliff, and dominated so by the fort that sprawled over the heights above. The scenery inland was surprisingly distinct, partly because of the clarity of the air, and also because the sun was so high, he supposed. He could see the path that led along the river to the salt dunes, and the dun of the undulating plain beyond, and even glimpse the white shimmer of the salinas reflected in the sky. The sandstone cliffs were pale in the midday light, and to his surprise, he could discern the black mouths of caves. This was where the cliffs stood about three miles from the river, he judged, and supposed he hadn’t been able to see them from the riverside path the day before because of the shimmering effect of distance.
Then Wiki was distracted by a babel of yapping and yodeling. When he turned in his saddle it was to see the gauchos galloping upriver toward the toldería, with Horatio Hale and Captain Stackpole gamely keeping up with them, so he urged his mare into a trot.
As he neared the Indian camp, he decided that it looked remarkably temporary for something that was such a long-standing institution, the toldos being made up of mats, rugs, and hides tossed casually over light wooden frames. Hitching rails dotted the grass everywhere, with rows of half-wild horses tethered to them, startling and bucking, their eyes rolling. Myriads of yellow dogs slunk about, snapping and snarling at each other.
When Wiki came to a stop by a picket line, the gauchos had dismounted already, and were heading for a large, sturdy adobe building set toward the center of the toldería. Once there, they stamped inside with a great clanking of iron spurs, Captain Stackpole close behind them. It was the pulpería, Wiki deduced, and probably a botillería—or bar—as well as a store, which meant it was the place where he was most likely to find the Indians who’d gone sealing with Captain Hallett. However, duty called, along with Mr. Hale, and so he slid down from the mare, secured her to a post, and joined the philologist.
Together, they approached the nearest tent. The eastern side of this was completely open, revealing a healthy-looking set of people who rose to their feet when they saw them coming. The men were tall and stalwart, particularly the younger ones, and though many wore nothing more than the guillapiz, a length of cloth draped about the body, they carried it magnificently. The young women were even more eye-catching, swathed in colorful cloth with chaplets of blue beads about their heads, their glossy black hair braided into two thick plaits. Their bright almond eyes sparkled as they contemplated Wiki, and he studied them back equally appreciatively. Then a meaningful cough from Horatio Hale reminded him of business, and he returned his attention to the men.
The
more important-looking wore gaucho costume, embellished with a lot of silver in the shape of buckles, spurs, and jewelry, their murderous facóns having particularly large and ornate silver handles. The metal was a signifier of rank, Wiki deduced, because the more lordly the wearer looked, the more silver there was about his person. Accordingly, he approached the man who was most heavily caparisoned, a well-muscled, middle-aged fellow with a flat, cruel face, and soon found he was right in guessing that he was the chief—the cacique. Bowing, Wiki greeted him formally and gravely in the form of Spanish that the gauchos used, and to his relief the chief understood him quite well, probably the result of years of trading. After that, it was rather like being back in the Bay of Islands, because of the dignified precision with which they traded names and other personal details, the cacique betraying no surprise that Wiki hailed from a South Seas archipelago he’d probably never heard of before.
Though acutely aware that Mr. Hale was shifting impatiently from boot to boot, Wiki seized his chance to ask about the sealing voyage. He was in luck, as the chief admitted that his son had been the capataz—the foreman—of the sealing gang. Where was he? In the pulpería, perhaps. Asking more details only resulted in a series of shrugs, so finally Wiki turned to Mr. Hale, and said, “This is Huinchan, one of the chiefs of his tribe.”
“Tell him that when I point at something, I want him or one of his subjects to tell me the name of that object in his native tongue.”
Wiki relayed this in more diplomatic terms, and the older Indians cooperated, though looking somewhat baffled, and a to-and-fro recitation commenced, while Mr. Hale wrote in a book. He soon lost the attention of all the rest. The pretty, red-cheeked girls were much more interested in teasing Wiki with flirtatious glances, giggling behind their fingers when he winked. Meantime, the young bloods had resumed their seats on the ground, and were carrying on a conversation that was evidently hilarious, being punctuated with shouts of laughter.
After a few moments of this Hale, looking extremely irritated, asked, “What are they talking about?”
