Deadly Shoals

by Joan Druett

  “Mandarin? That old devil Israel Starbuck was in command?”

  Wiki laughed, and said, “Aye.”

  “You got along with him?”

  “First-rate, as it happens.” Starbuck was a farthest limit skipper with strong ideas of discipline and order, but he also had a good sense of humor.

  Stackpole looked very thoughtful, and then said, “I could offer you the same berth on the Trojan.”

  Wiki smiled and shook his head, a decision that came easily because he disliked whaling so much. Judging it was a good time to change the subject, he said, “When the gauchos arrived in hot pursuit of that deer, did you see any of them carrying rifles?”

  “Not that I remember. Why?”

  “That naturalist—Titian Peale—was drawing a picture of the gauchos when I called into the pilothouse for a flag, and in his sketch two of them had guns.”

  “Artistic license,” the whaling master said wisely. “He sketches?”

  “Very well indeed. To tell the truth, I mistook him for an artist at first—because of his name, though he’s certainly talented enough to be one. Then he informed me he has brothers named Rubens and Rembrandt.”

  Stackpole’s eyebrows were as high as his hat. He was silent a moment, staring far out to sea, where the evening mists gathered. A cloud above the Trojan reflected the orange-red of the tryworks.

  Then he said meditatively, “I once shipped a hand by the name of Peale—Linnaeus Peale, another odd name. He used to sketch a bit, too. Shiftless lad, about as much use about decks as a bishop in a whorehouse. When he jumped ship in Brazil, I didn’t bother to go looking for him.”

  “Long ago?”

  “About the time of the war for free trade and sailors’ rights, so aye, it was quite a tidy time ago. His father ran a museum, he said—in Philadelphia.”

  “Museum?” said Wiki. “How odd! But it does sound like the same family.”

  “You should ask that naturalist about it.”

  “I don’t think so.” Wiki shook his head, certain that any such familiarity would meet with a very cold reception.

  “Well, it’s up to you—but aren’t you supposed to be a detective of some sort?”

  Wiki laughed instead of answering this, and then jumped up on top of his rock as he glimpsed movement on the far side of the surf. He was just in time to see the boat’s crew take in the sail and unstep the mast. A heave on the heavy oars, and the boat took on even more momentum, riding the crest of a billow with foam boiling at her bow.

  For a breath-held moment it seemed as if she would charge the strand full speed and arrive with a crash, but at the very last moment the mate at the steering oar hollered, “Stern all!” As one, the men pulled in reverse, so powerfully that their oars visibly bent with the tremendous pressure. The boat stopped dead, and Wiki and Stackpole hopped out of the way of the wash that boiled up the sand. Another few seconds, and the Trojan boat had been steadied by four muscular whalers who had jumped out into the shallows.

  Wiki was grinning broadly, dramatically reminded of the well-known fact that American whalemen were the best in the world in small boats. Captain Stackpole waded into the surf, and set to firing questions at his men, the answers to which sent him into a state of high excitement. Wiki heard him shouting at the top of his considerable lungs, “Ninety barrels? Ninety?”

  Then he came plunging back, shouting at Wiki, “They took a buster whale! A ninety-barrel spermaceti!”

  Wiki was suitably amazed. A whale that yielded that much oil was a record buster indeed, being nearly a hundred feet long, as long as the ship. It was a great rarity, something for everyone on the Trojan to brag about for the rest of their lives.

  He asked, “What does sperm oil fetch on the market these days?”

  Stackpole’s exultant grin stretched his face sideways to an incredible extent. “The last I heard, over a dollar a gallon. Ninety barrels will fetch three thousand dollars—three thousand dollars at a minimum!”

  Wiki whistled, thinking that it almost made up for the loss of the thousand-dollar bond.

  “Ship with us,” Stackpole urged. “You won’t regret it, not now our luck has changed. And I could sure use a sharp-eyed second mate. The one I’ve got is as blind as a bat.”

  Again, Wiki shook his head without hesitation. While the prospect of spending the night in the company of the four scientifics was unattractive, the thought of working on the oil-soaked, bloodstained, stinking decks of a whaleship in the throes of trying out was vastly worse. “I’ve signed a contract,” he said, but then added, “You’ll report to Captain Wilkes?”

  To his surprise, Stackpole’s face closed up, abruptly becoming expressionless. When he didn’t answer, Wiki urged, “You’re the one who should ask him to stage a search for the Grim Reaper. I’ll talk to him as soon as possible after the Sea Gull rejoins the fleet in the morning, of course, but he’ll take a lot more notice of you than he will of me.”

  “We’ll be a mite too busy for quite a while,” the whaling master objected. “It’s likely you’ll get on board the Vincennes before me.”

  Wiki frowned at the evasiveness in his tone. When they had left El Carmen that afternoon Stackpole had been on fire to report to Wilkes and get a search under way, he remembered, and he wondered why he had changed his mind in the meantime. Thinking back, Wiki realized that the whaleman had been unusually silent on the ride to the estuary. At the time he had thought he was simply brooding, but now he wondered if he had been turning something over in his mind.

  Instead of explaining, Stackpole said, “The horses? You’ll return them?”

  “Aye,” said Wiki wryly, for this was going to cost him money.

  “Well, then,” said Stackpole. He cleared his throat, and waded back into the surf. Just as he was about to clamber into the Trojan’s boat, however, he hesitated, turned around, and splashed back to the beach, hauling his poncho over his head as he came.

  When he arrived he handed it to Wiki, saying rather awkwardly, “I don’t need this anymore, I reckon—so you might as well have it. You’ve been a good lad, withal, even though you ain’t got my money back, nor my schooner, and don’t you forget that offer. If you change your mind, you’re welcome to ship on the old Trojan.”

  “Well,” said Wiki, trying not to laugh, “I thank you.”

  “Think nothing of it.” And, with that, and a brisk nod, Captain Stackpole plunged back to his boat. Seizing the steering oar, he barked commands, the boat was turned around, the oarsmen jumped in, and off she went. Birds called, and the breakers swished, but the world seemed quiet after they had gone.

  * * *

  The sun set as Wiki arrived back at the top of the cliff, leaving a broad red band on the horizon where the dark plain met the black sky. Stackpole’s pinto was still nibbling at the short, unappetizing tussock, and for some moments Wiki stood rubbing the horse’s warm, bristly neck and watching the familiar southern constellations appear, reluctant to go back to the pilothouse where the hostile scientifics awaited. Then he heard one of the gauchos lift his voice in a song, a plaintive air that sounded thin and unearthly in the night, and roused himself to unhitch the bridle. When he led the horse down the path the aroma of roasting meat rose to meet him, along with shouts from the gauchos. He was only just in time, they informed him as he arrived.

  Wiki tethered the pinto next to the gray mare, who appeared a lot more pleased to see her stablemate than she was to see Wiki. After filling a bowl of water for them both, he joined the gauchos at the fire, trailed by the four scientifics, who seemed rather overawed by the exotic company. Joints were being torn apart and handed around, while one of the gauchos turned out some large loaves of coarse bread, and another brewed more maté.

  Within thirty minutes the last bones were smoking in the flames. The scientifics retired to the cabin with an air of relief, lighting their pipes as they went, but Wiki stopped by the fire. As the stars dragged across the sky a tin mug of rough red wine was passed around. The g
aucho who sang broke into melody again, Wiki sipped maté through a grass-stem straw, and four of the rastreadores argued about politics and revolution.

  The name of the tyrant of the Río de la Plata featured prominently in the discussion, Wiki noticed. He thought it was understandable. The gauchos had fathers and uncles who had helped de Rosas conquer the Indians, but since then the tyrant had kept up an iron rule by the time-honored method of imprisoning and murdering any man who stood against him, not sparing those who had fought on his side in the past. Like all dictators, his time would come, they said; revolution was as inevitable as the turning of the seasons.

  Wiki sought out Bernantio, who was smoking meditatively. He sat on the grass beside him, and asked, “Do you know of the clerk whose name was Gomes?”

  “The clerk of Señor Adams’s store?”

  Wiki nodded. “He has two sons.”

  “I believe they fish,” said the rastreador, confirming what Ducatel had said. “Though that is not a living. Too, they steal horses, and sell them to men who will pay. Just some days ago, we saw them taking a tropilla to the caves where the rebels live. There, the money would be good.”

  A tropilla was a small herd of horses. Wiki remembered the dark mouths of caves he had glimpsed from the bluff on the other side of the river, and realized that these were the hideouts Bernantio had indicated on the ride to the dunes.

  He said, “Perhaps the Gomes brothers did not ask for money—perhaps they sympathize with the rebel cause.”

  “That would not be unusual,” Manuel admitted.

  “Is there a chance that the clerk was killed because of their politics?”

  The rastreador let out a sound of utter contempt. “His sons might wear the chiripá and the poncho, but they are rough Portuguese fishermen. Such men would never fight for Argentina.”

  Wiki lifted his brows, thinking that the tribes of South America were as apt to be disdainful of each other as the tribes of the South Pacific. He said, “Do you believe the rebels of the caves of the Río Negro will ever fight for Argentina?”

  Bernantio spat to one side, and said, “Not until a leader presents himself who is better than the one they have now.”

  Wiki said, “You know this man?”

  Bernantio shook his head, but then changed his mind and said mysteriously, “It is not good when outsiders intrude on local affairs.”

  Wiki paused, wondering what the rastreador was hinting at, and hazarded, “Some foreigner in this place has been trying to organize a revolution?”

  “So runs the gossip. They say he has provided arms.”

  “But who would it be—and why would he do it?”

  “I believe he is American.”

  Wiki said quickly, “Dr. Ducatel?”

  Again, Bernantio grunted with derision. “The doctor who pretends to be a gaucho? Have you seen that one on a horse? No, this one was a seaman who joined the army of de Rosas during the war with Brazil, but soon rebelled, and incited a mutiny. He killed two men, so was condemned to death. Instead, however, he was flogged twelve hundred lashes over three different times. Now, he strives to overthrow his sworn enemy, General de Rosas, which is the reason he supports the rebels. Undoubtedly, he will end up on the gallows.”

  Wiki grimaced. Twelve hundred lashes was an extreme punishment, even when divided into three sessions. He felt skeptical that anyone would survive it.

  “Perhaps he is dead already,” he suggested.

  Bernantio shook his head. “He works on the river as a pilot, and at other times he disappears, sometimes for months on end—or so they say.”

  Wiki said quickly, “A pilot? Do you know his name?”

  “I believe I have heard it,” Manuel allowed. He pursed his lips as he drew in smoke from his thin cigar, and then blew it out reflectively. “Could it be Harden?”

  “It could indeed,” said Wiki softly.

  Eight

  January 28, 1839

  Wiki slept soundly, one more human spoke in the wheel of gauchos about the fire, wrapped in his poncho with his boots pointing to the heat, and woke feeling magnificent. As he washed away his travel stains in the river, “E te hihi o te ra,” he sang, to greet the first rays of the sun and celebrate the ancestors who had voyaged from the direction of the dawn:

  E kokiri kei runga e

  Tarahau, e, pikipiki ake ra, e

  Nga moutere tahore tia mai te moana!

  Kaore iara, pikipiki ao, pikipiki ao,

  Ka puta iara kei tua e!

  Sail out all over, O rays of the sun,

  Sail over the islands, spread over the sea!

  Spread your greatness all over, all over

  Sail to the far side of the world!

  When he arrived back at the fire, shaking the water out of his springing ringlets ready to bind the bandanna round them again, it was to find the gauchos saddling up their horses. Hale, Peale, and the two doctors were standing around, complaining about the uncomfortable night they had passed in the cabin. To Wiki’s hidden amusement, they were also grouching about Horatio Hale’s fleas, which apparently he had generously shared with them all. At the same time, they were watching intently as the gauchos carried out their morning routine. The scientists’ expressions were distant and objective, yet oddly greedy, as if they were mentally noting the details of this exotic sight for future dissertations and lectures.

  After taking this in, Wiki walked over to Mr. Peale. “Because of Bernantio and his gauchos, you ate well last night,” he remarked.

  The middle-aged naturalist frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “You should recompense them in some way. Life is hard on the steppe, but they willingly shared all they had. Courtesy is important here; it can make all the difference between survival and death.”

  “But Captain Ringgold paid them well, I believe.” Titian Peale looked at Horatio Hale, who emphatically nodded. The two doctors were listening; their faces had gone quite blank.

  Wiki said obdurately, “Tobacco is a suitable gift.”

  Silence. For long seconds the four scientists didn’t move. Then they glanced at each other before turning out their pockets. Bernantio, who had a very good idea of what had happened though he hadn’t understood a word, gave Wiki a fond look before sharing the bounty with his compadres, taking punctilious care that no one had less than the rest.

  Then he announced that it was time to go. Wiki, who had saddled both horses meantime, mounted the mare, took the pinto’s bridle, and accompanied them as far as the headland, where the rendezvous flag still fluttered. The Trojan was now at anchor, Wiki noticed, and still smoking hellishly. She was a good two miles downwind from the Vincennes, which was well advised, considering how she was fouling the air, but he wondered if Stackpole had changed his mind, and hastened to contact Wilkes. Remembering the whaling master’s evasive, sheepish expression, he somehow didn’t think so, and felt puzzled again.

  “I shall have much to relate to my brother,” said Bernantio.

  Wiki smiled. “Give him my best wishes for good health, and for that of his friends and family. Tell him I am working hard on growing my hair, and shall soon be the long-haired rascal he remembers.”

  The rastreador’s deeply tanned face creased up as he nodded, and passed on similar polite good wishes for George Rochester. “Perhaps we will meet again,” he said, and touched his steed with one heel. With a loud yell and a whirling of ponchos, the gauchos spurred their mounts into a gallop, and then they were off.

  Would he ever see them again? Wiki watched until the dust they kicked up had settled. It was not until after they were gone that he realized they had taken Mr. Hale’s horse with them.

  When he finally looked back at the river, the lack of activity was in distinct contrast to the energy of the gauchos’ departure. The Sea Gull was still floating in the same place, making no discernible move toward raising the anchors. He looked at the sun, thinking that he would have to return the horses now if he was to make the nine o’clock rendezvous o
n the riverbank—but then, just as he was about to turn away, he saw the whaleboat that was heading briskly shoreward from the direction of the fleet.

  Even though it was within a mile of the beach, Wiki was certain it had come from the Swallow. Looking up at the flapping rendezvous flag, he found it easy to make up his mind that the lookout on the brig had seen it, and George Rochester had sent the boat for him. Tethering the two horses to the post, he headed pell-mell down the cliff track again, landing on the beach with an athletic, exultant leap.

  The boat was approaching the breakers already, and it was possible to see that there was a man wearing uniform in the stern sheets—an officer, because there was a glint of gold in the dark blue. George? And why the uniform? Did he plan to go to El Carmen?

  With a swish and a grate of gravel, the boat came to a landing, and to his surprise Wiki realized that it wasn’t a Swallow boat at all, but belonged to the Osprey, his father’s brigantine. The six men of the boat’s crew weren’t even men—they were mere boys, his father’s cadets! However, they looked competent enough, as rough and ready as the seamen back on the Osprey who were training them to be sailors. One, Wiki noticed, bore the signs of recent battle, and he assumed they had got into a ruckus, as proud, high-spirited, young sailors were often apt to do.

  Then he forgot it, beaming delightedly at the uniformed officer, who was most certainly George. His old comrade sprang over the bulwarks with his shiny half-boots in his left hand, waded through the surf, and shook hands heartily with his right. “My God, old man, you’re the complete gaucho,” he said. “What the devil have you been up to? Have you met Mr. Seward?”

  Mr. Seward was Captain Coffin’s first mate, who had been working the steering oar. A lean, athletic-looking character, he walked the length of the boat, then took a leap from the bow that almost cleared the ebb of a wave. His handshake was firm and brief, his hand bony and strong, and he nodded curtly instead of speaking. Wiki had seen him in passing in Rio, and had got the impression of an energetic, impatient character, and Mr. Seward’s busy expression and sharp pale green eyes confirmed it.